Friendship as a Form of Somatic Healing
On later-in-life friendship, nervous system healing, and the sacredness of being seen.
I didn’t know how badly I needed the trip until I felt my body exhale.
The flight to Northern California had me teetering on the edge of tears for reasons I couldn’t quite name. My nervous system was frayed—jittery, guarded, sad, and exhausted. By the time I landed, I could feel the weight of it in my chest: that familiar, foggy heaviness that comes when I’ve been pushing past my limits for too long.
My dear friend Roya picked me up from the airport. Even in her presence, I felt torn; half in my body, half still tethered to the stress I’d left behind. We drove through the redwoods and met our friends at a new little spot. I don’t remember what I ordered or what we talked about, just the feeling of being received and hugged and loved by my gals. I remember the beginning flickers of grounding—the familiar laughter, the texture of friendship, the slow reminder that I was safe. A few hours of sunshine on the lush lawns of The River Electric, surrounded by the majesty of Mother Nature, and I felt an imminent homecoming on the horizon.
It would take until the next morning for my body to fully land, but the unwinding had already begun.
We were already a full day in—me and my girlfriends, tucked away in a cabin on the Russian River in Guerneville, CA—when I noticed the shift. It was Saturday morning, around 10am. The sun had just broken through the trees. I was sipping coffee, snuggled into a corner of the couch, wrapped up in a cozy blanket, my body soft in a way I hadn’t felt in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe longer.
And then it happened: the great, full-body exhale. The kind that doesn’t just signal breath, but return.
I came into this weekend carrying a lot. An intense work week. My son, down with the flu all week. A home full of needs, noise, and nonstop responsibility. My nervous system wasn’t just frayed—it was screaming. And the truth? I didn’t want to go.
It felt easier, safer, to stay home. To tend. To manage. To control. But my partner—bless him—looked at me and said, “You need this time away from us.”
I bristled. Part of me still believes I’m supposed to not need that. That the good mother, the devoted partner, the responsible business owner doesn’t long to run. That if I were doing it right, rest would come from within the chaos. But he was right. I needed to go. Not to escape, but to come back to myself.
These women—my LILFs, as I lovingly call them—are later-in-life friends. The kind you meet when you’re already a whole human, carrying history, healing, and a handful of broken dreams. We’ve only known each other for about four years, but the connection runs deep.
They’re the kind of friends I can care about without having to caretake. The kind of friends who understand that “I’m fine” might actually mean “I’m drowning.” The kind of friends who will hot tub with you late at night, giggle over oysters or sit in silence with you on a porch because they know that sometimes, that’s exactly what love looks like.
They see me. All of me. The tender therapist. The tired mother. The soft, struggling wife. The woman who still sometimes forgets that rest isn’t something to be earned.
We had our own rhythm, our own rituals. Slow mornings with coffee—shared, sacred, and never rushed. We took walks beneath towering redwoods, letting the quiet of the forest regulate us in ways we didn’t know we needed. We basked on the dock in the afternoon sun with a bowl of cherries between us, letting the sweetness linger. We hot tubbed under the stars, floated on the river, explored fairy rings, sun lizarded, and blasted Taylor Swift while cooking dinner like we were in our own magical world—unapologetically joyful and completely free.
There were porch heart-to-hearts and belly laughs, lazy hours and tiny griefs that made their way to the surface. It was spacious, silly, spiritual, and satisfying. And through it all, my body kept softening. My nervous system, long coiled and cautious, began to trust again.
There’s a sacredness to time away with women like this. A soul-recalibration. It’s not a luxury. It’s not indulgent. It’s regulation. It’s resourcing. It’s the embodied reminder that I am not just a role or a container—I am a person, too.
And maybe that’s the most important part: not only did I feel like myself again—I remembered that I have a self outside of everyone I tend to.
The Science and Soul of Why This Heals
This kind of time, unstructured, joy-centered, and safe, doesn’t just feel good. It’s medicine for the nervous system.
When we’re in safe, attuned relationships, especially ones where we don’t have to perform or produce, we shift out of survival mode. The social engagement system comes online. Our bodies stop scanning for danger. We regulate not just because we’re alone, but because we’re together in a way that requires nothing from us. Laughter, rest, co-regulation, shared meals, and silly rituals? These are the nervous system's native language.
There was no emotional labor in this group. No one needed me to hold it together or be the responsible one. I wasn’t a therapist. I wasn’t a mom. I wasn’t a wife. I was just me. And that is deeply, biologically soothing.
But here’s the other truth: you don’t need a weekend in the redwoods to access this.
The practice of this kind of care can show up in a five-minute voice memo to a friend who really sees you. It can live in a shared laugh on a walk, a meal eaten slowly with someone who lets you be soft, a moment of music in your kitchen where you let yourself dance like someone is watching—and they love it.
You can recreate the conditions of safety and connection in small, powerful ways:
a daily check-in with a girlfriend
a porch hang instead of a coffee shop meeting
an agreement that no one has to be “fine” unless they really are
a text that just says: “no need to respond, I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you.”
Your nervous system doesn’t need grand gestures. It just needs honest ones.
If you need the reminder
You’re allowed to need space from the people you love. That doesn’t make you selfish, broken, or ungrateful. It makes you human.
You’re allowed to come undone in the company of people who won’t try to fix you—who will simply sit with you in your unraveling and offer warm food, eye contact, and laughter that reaches your bones.
You’re allowed to take up space in ways that aren’t productive. To rest without earning it. To be quiet without explaining it. To feel joy without shrinking it.
You’re allowed to have a self that exists beyond mother, therapist, partner, business owner. A self that doesn’t just hold others, but gets to be held.
You’re allowed to float, nap, cry, bask, dance in the kitchen, and forget what time it is.
You’re allowed to be soft, silly, sacred, sensual, wild. You’re allowed to be all of you.
You don’t have to disappear into the roles you inhabit. You’re allowed to return to yourself, again and again—and be met there with love.
What I’m Committing To
This weekend wasn’t just a retreat. It was a reckoning. A reminder that I want to feel more— more regulated, more connected, more like myself. And the more-ness of it all isn’t reserved for once-a-year trips. It’s something I can commit to now, in small and meaningful ways.
So I’m building a life that makes room for this kind of nourishment. Not just in redwoods and rivers, but in my daily rhythm.
Here’s what that looks like for me:
Text check-ins. Whether it’s the Cabo Cuties, Soul Sisters, Qobras or the Wolfpack (and yes, I name each of the text threads I’m in, thankyouverymuch), each of the people in these threads fills my soul. Little voice notes, memes, or just a “thinking of you” that keep the thread of connection alive even when we’re not together.
Regular dinner dates. With my gals, with my partner, with myself. Because food shared slowly and intentionally is a form of therapy I trust.
Quiet time reading. Not for work. Not for a deadline. Just for the joy of being transported somewhere else while staying grounded in my own body.
Regular movement. Not performative. Not punishing. But the kind that feels like coming home—dancing in the kitchen, long walks, stretching in the sun, or my biweekly workout with Sonu & Joey.
Rest without guilt. A body that’s always giving deserves to receive. I’m learning to soften before I shatter. To pause before I disappear.
I want to live in a way that doesn’t require me to run away to remember myself. This trip reminded me how good it feels to be me—and I’m building a life that lets her stay.
Girlfriends like these? They’re not just a luxury. They’re a reclamation.
Let them witness you. Let them soften you. Let them remind you that you’re still in there.
And when they do? Let yourself believe them.