The Friends Who Bring The Shovel: The Hilarious, Healing Power of Grown-Up Friendships
Let’s talk about adult friendships—the real ones. Not the ones where you bond over you’re shared lack of interest in having to get out of the car at school pickup and pretend to care about Susan’s kombucha brewing hobby, but the soul-deep, ride-or-die people who have seen you completely unfiltered and love you more because of it.
You know the ones.
They’ve been there through it all: your divorce/breakup, your miscarriage, the time you ugly cried because your kid told you they hated you, and when your aging parents decided technology was a personal attack and only you can fix it. They’ve sent “you’ve got this” texts while you were crying in a bathroom stall at work, and they’ve stood like emotional bodyguards when your mental health had you duct-taped together with caffeine and sarcasm.
These aren’t just friends. These are your chosen family. Your late-night phone call crew. The people you could text at midnight with,
“Wear a disguise. Bring a shovel. No questions.”
and the only thing they’ll ask is, “Whose car are we taking?”
They are your load-bearing emotional beams. The humans who somehow know exactly when your tank is empty and show up with snacks, wisdom, and the emotional equivalent of a well curated toolkit. They've seen your worst and reminded you it’s not the end—just a dramatic, peril-riddled chapter in your bestselling autobiography.
They’ve witnessed the crimes:
The backed-into-the-pole-but-drove-away moment.
The accidental poop incident (don’t lie, “One of Us. One of Us..”).
The screamed-at-my-kids-because-I-was-overwhelmed meltdown.
And they didn’t flinch. Instead, they said, “Same.” Then they handed you a glass of wine, some cheese, or just sat with you in silence, because they get it.
They know all the things:
You had headgear, braces AND peed the bed when you’re 13.
The deeply regrettable people you slept with in your 20s (RIP to our dignity, but hey—experience).
The exact tone you use when you’re pretending to be fine but are actually three seconds from spiraling.
And the love? It’s tough but honest.
They’re the ones who whisper “There’s a peppercorn in your teeth” before you walk into a meeting.
Who adjust your necklace and blend your makeup mid-conversation.
Who will absolutely tell you when you're being a dramatic twat—but then still hug you like you didn’t just try to ruin brunch with your hormonal chaos.
Here’s the thing: friendships like these are survival tools.
In a world that is constantly throwing us spiked emotional dodgeballs—aging, failure, grief, overwhelm, the mystery of where your thigh gap went—it is these friendships that keep us grounded and sane. It’s important to nourish the new connections, yes. Say yes to coffee with that girl you met at an event, go to the book club, chat up the mom at pickup who seems kind and might have snacks. But don’t forget to water the OG roots—the people who have stood in your mud, danced in your joy, and held your secrets like sacred scrolls.
And let’s not forget the absurd beauty of how these friendships evolve. Once upon a time, your hangouts involved prank calls, absurd amounts of vodka/waters (cause the water cancels out the alcohol resulting in zero hangover…LIES Krysta!) and emotionally unavailable men named Chad. Now? It’s leggings, cute hoodies, and trying to stay awake long enough to finish an episode of Sweet Magnolias you’ll all rewatch four times because you keep falling asleep.
You used to talk for hours about dreams and crushes and how you were totally moving to Paris one day. Now you talk about therapy breakthroughs, your pelvic floor, and which probiotic finally made you poop like a regular human. Growth, baby.
But even when the conversations shift, the connection doesn’t. In fact, it only gets deeper. You begin to understand that true friendship isn't just about fun—it’s about witnessing. About saying “I see you” when you don’t even recognize yourself anymore. About holding each other accountable and holding each other up.
These are the friends who send reels as love letters. Who remember your kid’s birthday even when you forgot it. Who text “Wellness Check?” because they haven’t heard from you in a couple hours and not because they’re insecure—but because they know you and your silence means you're probably hiding in your laundry room stress-eating Ritz crackers dipped in cream cheese or pouring that 5th glass of crisp pinot grigio because you are not okay.
They celebrate your weird. They encourage your wild. They love your soft, your broken, your rising.
And you love theirs.
You’ve weathered breakups, breakthroughs, Botox appointments, and the slow, soul-crushing realization that your metabolism has left the group chat…months ago. You’ve held space for each other in the messy middle of life—when it’s not shiny or impressive or Instagrammable.
And somehow, that’s where the magic is.
So here's to the ones who remind us that we’re not alone. That we’re not crazy (even if, okay yes, we are a tiny bit unhinged and are intrigued by murder). That we are loved, needed, important—and not just because we bring snacks and emotional support beverages, but because we matter.
To the women and people who’ve seen us at our worst, cheered us at our best, and love us exactly where we are today:
You are the lifelines. The medicine. The magic.
Yes, yes, YES. I’m speaking language of deep, ride-or-die friendship, and I hope you’re here for it
And let’s talk about the real investments these friends make in you—not just emotionally, but financially. These are the women who have e-transferred you money without a single question, with a note that says, “Pay me back when life stops being a dumpster fire.” They’ve covered dinners, gifts, concert tickets, and that Target runs.
They invest in your dreams, your side hustles, your weird Etsy store that sells hand-knitted cactus cozies. They believe in you when you don’t believe in yourself. They are venture capitalists of your soul.
They’re also wildly talented in the art of duality. Because yes, they’ll bash your husband in the group chat when he’s being an emotionally constipated man-child—but when you all get together? They hug him warmly, they truly care and ask him about work, and pretend they haven’t heard every sordid detail about that dumb fight you had over who was snoring louder last night. Again.
These are the people who love your children like bonus family. They bring birthday gifts, show up at school concerts, and text you reminders to pack snow pants because they know you’re mentally elsewhere trying not to cry over a reel you saw about soldiers returning home. They remember your kid’s favorite colour, allergy, and F-word phase.
They are your board of directors for all shopping-related decisions. You cannot—will not—buy a throw pillow, a dress, or a coffee mug without FaceTiming them from aisle seven like you're on a fashion version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. “Should I get the amber glass vase or the cream ceramic one?” And they’ll pause like it’s a life-altering decision—because honestly? It is.
They are walking, talking love languages.
Acts of service. Words of affirmation. Physical touch. Quality time. And gift giving—all wrapped up in a hoodie, holding a Starbucks, asking, “Are we being too harsh or is he actually the worst?”
They are the glue, the hype squad, the reality check, and the relief. They hold space and they hold receipts. They let you be ugly, messy, tired, overwhelmed—and they love you harder in the moments you feel least lovable.
So here’s to the friends who bring wisdom, snacks, shopping advice, and unconditional love.
Who know when you need a pep talk, when you need a loan, and when you just need to cry into their lap like a sad Victorian ghost.
These people are not just friends. They are everything.
And if you don’t have a group like this yet—go find them. Be this kind of friend. Because life is too damn hard to go through it without someone who will defend your honour and also your questionable taste in men!
Lastly, if we ever do need to bury something shady, I’ll bring the shovels. You bring the wine. And we’ll take my minivan—there’s more trunk space.