the oldest magic

on the spellbound intimacy of childhood friends

There’s something about a summer night that makes it easier to believe in magic.

We were coming down the stairs of my apartment the other night, Jamie and I with a joint in tow, passing it between us like we used to on slow, aimless walks through our hometown’s woods. Madison, a few steps behind said, “This feels like high school.” And it did, in all the best ways.

The air was thick and warm as we walked, the four of us moving in step like we’d been practicing our whole lives. And just maybe, we have.

Because when I’m with them, I feel part of something older than myself. Something passed down through the hands and hearts of women long before we were here.

We’ve always gathered like this, haven’t we? In kitchens and gardens, in bedrooms and back porches, in common rooms and markets, circling each other in silent devotion. Women holding each other through heartbreak, through childbirth, through wars and loss and small, ordinary evenings. Spilling gossip and truth only to each other. Lighting candles, casting spells, braiding branches, dancing through fire.

Our time spent together is spellbound. With them, the air is softer, or maybe that’s just how a body remembers someone good. The way it remembers how to be at ease. How to breathe slower. And every time, I’m struck by the same quiet thought of how lucky I am to know what this feels like. How rare it is to have people who make you feel as gorgeously safe as the sea.

As we walked, someone said, as we always seem to say, how we really, truly don’t need anyone else. Even back when we got to college, years ago, we already knew—joking but not really—that we’d already found the best friends in the whole world. That we didn’t need to look for anyone else, because we’d already found home in each other.

And that’s the thing about them. About this kind of friendship. It isn’t just about how they make me laugh, or how they catch my tears. It’s something bigger than us all. Something almost spiritual. As though my nervous system recognizes theirs. As though being around them reminds my body of a truth I can forget often: I am safe here.

There’s a theory in neuroscience called co-regulation. It’s the idea that our nervous systems mirror the people around us. Calm invites calm, alignment softens chaos. We often hear about it in the context of parent and child, but I think female friendships, when they are true and safe, hold this magic too, if not more.

Their voices are familiar, not just to my ears but to my whole body. The cadence of their footsteps beside mine. The way one of them instinctively touches my shoulder when I’m quiet for too long or the peace that comes when they’re just as quiet with me. This regulation feels kind of like a nonverbal permission to rest.

And there are so few places in life—at least for me—where I feel allowed to be fully free. Where nothing is expected of me except to show up just as I am. Whether that be burnt out, blissful, grieving, spiraling, or serene—I’m still met with warmth. Still met with recognition. Still just met.

So much of adulthood can feel like an exercise in subtle loneliness. You move through rooms full of people you like, even love, but they don’t always see you. Not the way these girls see me. Not the way your oldest, truest friends see you.

They are my greatest love story.

“The longer I live, the more deeply I learn that love—whether we call it friendship or family or romance—is the work of mirroring and magnifying each other’s light.”

That’s what they do for me, again and again. They catch my light and hand it back when I forget where or when it fell. And in my best moments, I like to think I do the same for them.

I’ve had my fair share of heartbreak over the years, but nothing has taught me more about intimacy—real, unshakable intimacy—than they have.

So we kept walking, our laughter melting into the heat around us, arms brushing under the setting sun. A little constellation of women who have never let each other down. And I thought, if I never love anyone else the way I love them, it will be enough.

It feels like we’re carrying history with us every time we’re together. Every time I feel Jamie’s empathy across a table, or catch Madison’s eyes close when she laughs, every time Sid rests a hand on my arm without having to ask what’s wrong and every time Shannon knows what I’m thinking before I do.

It’s a kind of attention I don’t find anywhere else. A kind of peace I can’t explain.

We stayed out longer than we meant to, as always. The air smelled like cut grass and smoke. Our voices drifted in and out of the night, harmonious and certain. And walking back up my stairs I thought, maybe this is the oldest magic there is. Women choosing each other.

Bertha Menzler Peyton (1871-1947) ~ Dance of the Nymphs