the kindness of strangers - and brownies
A tender, slightly awkward attempt at making friends as an adult.
My fatal flaw is a lack of patience—
with myself, with time, with change. I want everything now, all at once.
Romance novels and movies reinforce this. The men chase—or, if it’s modern, the woman does. They declare their love, share a dramatic kiss, and the story ends. But life doesn’t work like that. No one makes big, sweeping declarations for me. And I’m too impatient to wait.
While I bide my time, I reminisce.
I miss being a child and believing everyone cared for me. Every person I encountered was kind, warm, and remembered to smile back. Making friends seemed simpler then.
Now, I stand in front of these double doors, willing them to open. I’m afraid. Maybe I smell weird. Maybe my facial expressions are a millisecond too fast or too slow. If I’m too quiet, I’ll seem like I don’t want to be here. If I’m too hesitant, I’ll disappear.
The doors open. A dim hallway stretches out ahead. It’s late, and I’m even later. I hope I don’t embarrass myself by tripping down the stairs.
I reach the final set of doors and hear chatter on the other side. Quips, laughter.
Good, I think. A sense of humor.
I try not to overthink it. I picture myself slipping inside quietly. I try not to feel like everyone’s looking. I walk quickly toward the snack table.
I smile and greet everyone.
Eye contact is important, I remind myself. It shows interest. I open the containers and announce that I brought brownies, hoping they’ll like them. Someone praises me for individually wrapping each one. I nod, but my armpits are burning. I wonder if the discomfort shows on my face. I’m afraid my eyes give away that I’ve stopped listening.
I silently beg for the conversation to end. I need to take off my jacket and sit down.
I shuffle to a seat and exhale. I look around the room. I hear voices but don’t see faces. Everyone seems so young. Suddenly, I feel very old.
A friend once told me he wonders if he’s already made all the friends he’ll ever have as an adult. I hope that isn’t true for me.
The fundraiser begins. People head up to buy snacks.
I see them choosing my brownies. Success.
The one girl I always make small talk with arrives. I shift my legs to signal she can sit beside me. Our conversation doesn’t really get going until just before the meeting ends.
The movie starts. I’ve seen it before. The room grows loud with chatter. I think about how, in elementary school, teachers would yell at kids for talking during movies.
What happened to social conditioning?
Still, I feel something close to hope. There’s a community here. They’re kind, passionate, voracious. They laugh loudly, exchange knowing glances. I want to be there—to be welcomed, and to be myself without question.
When I leave, I feel the weight of the leftover brownies in their containers.
I wonder what people think of me as we pass on the sidewalk.
Where is she going? Who is she? Who did she bake these for?
I wonder those things constantly about other people. I send them silent well wishes as they rush back to their chaos.
Back at my car, I feel a little silly.
Silly for how deeply I want to be liked.
Silly because I know my therapist would be proud of me for showing up.
Silly for feeling guilty about wanting connection.
But I am allowed to want friendship. I am allowed to want community. I am allowed to be seen by people who don’t tell me to stop, stand straighter, smile bigger, or fix my hair.
My loneliness feels crushing—for a moment.
Maybe it’s just the night.
I remind myself: honest connection doesn’t happen overnight.
My people are out there.
Somewhere on the horizon.
I close the car door and drive home.