As I get older, I find myself less able to digest certain foods — the mega-spicy Buldak ramen days are behind me. The noodles that once thrilled me with a racing heart and numb tongue now leave me with heartburn and stomach aches. As I let go of the “no pain, no gain” mentality of my twenties, so goes my addiction to ultra-spicy foods. But as I grieve the loss of those (sometimes violent?) delights, I also think about what I’ve gained in their absence — an appreciation for subtle flavors and the freshness of ingredients.
In many ways, that shift has carried into other parts of life. Gone are the days of chasing the highs of all-consuming, intoxicating friendships or romances. In my teens and early twenties, I craved whirlwind connections — meeting someone new, wanting to know everything about them, spending all my time with them, then enduring the inevitable crushing loss when the infatuation ended. I was a hopeless romantic, daydreaming about running into a future bestie in the marker aisle at Blick (surely anyone browsing there has good taste), or a crush at the Strand (yes, it’s a cliché — clearly proven by the plot of the Netflix show Dash and Lily).
Now, almost in my mid-thirties, my appetite for human connection has grown more nuanced. I’m better at being in the moment. I find joy in small talk with people I may never see again. I can appreciate aspects of someone even if I don’t like every part of them. I’ve come to see the beauty of circumstantial relationships and fleeting moments, and to make the most of them. Sometimes I wonder if I should grieve the hopeless optimist I used to be. But more often, I feel this is a peace that maturity has brought me — no doubt sustained by the long-standing friendships I’ve cultivated over time.
I often think of the saying that friendships lasting more than seven years are likely to last a lifetime. It feels timely (and lovely) that I recently spent a long weekend with friends I’ve known for about seven years (hello, Meg, Liz, Ilona, Susie, Kevin!). Together, we chose “digestion” as a theme — digestion of body, mind, soul, art, non-art, and everything in between. Lately, I’ve been thinking of my relationships as a kind of gut microbiome. In particular, my meaningful friendships feel like the healthy microbes that sustain me.
A healthy microbiome does more than break down food — it aids nutrient absorption, supports the immune system, and even influences the brain. That’s what my friends do for me. I witness the world as it happens to and around me, but I rarely feel I truly “digest” it until I’ve processed it through the lens of people I love. Hearing what art means to them gives the word meaning. Witnessing friends’ marriages makes the idea of commitment real. Listening to them talk about faith illuminates how belief shapes ethics and morality. My friends give context to what would otherwise be just raw information, transforming it into something I can absorb. For that, I am deeply thankful. Their presence allows me to digest life’s complexity — community, religion, friendships, milestones — in a way I never could alone.
In a couple of months, I’ll step into my mid-thirties. Ten or fifteen years ago, I assumed I’d have life figured out by now. Instead, I’m still grappling with the same unfinished threads: never enough time for self-care or exercise, keeping up with hobbies and friendships, carving a career path, securing steady income, sustaining an art practice, questioning life milestones. The list goes on. But what’s changed is my sense that things will be okay, even if they’re not okay in the moment.
The same crises remain, but now I move through them with friends who share their vulnerable thoughts with me. Their struggles give me perspective on my own; their victories give me joy and hope. Their presence has built up a healthy gut microbiome that steadies me through mishaps and disappointments, softening blows that once felt devastating. I may no longer want to mess with mega-spicy Buldak ramen — but if I had to, I know I’d have my lovely gut microflora to lean on.