If Jill and I had known each other when we were 9-10 years old, we either would have been mortal enemies or inseparable friends — we’re too similar for anything in between.

We met in PT school and had a mutual respect for one another (although she claims she tried harder to be my friend than I reciprocated). We kept in loose contact in the decade passing since graduation, but started communicating more over the past couple of years. Now Jill is stuck in the inescapable circle of my dearest friends — sorry, Jill, but you asked for it.

Now I know: Jess and Jill would have been fast childhood friends. I know this to be true even beyond our shared fourth-grade love of baseball caps, baggy T-shirts, and sneakers. Even in our mid-30s we climb trees, splash in stony streams, build monster snowmen, marvel at mosses and woodland flowers, and put favorite rocks into our pockets to show each other later. We hang from jungle gyms, balance on logs, hop across road crossings, and run up grassy hillsides to see how fast we can go. She even let me convince her to join me in wading frigid waters a few times – but not without a lot of squawking.

We act our age in some ways. We claim to support each other in early bedtimes, but all too often stay up late discussing how the world works and how we should live within it. We talk shop about our shared physical therapy and education vocational backgrounds. We get excited about new patio arrangements and a freshly cleaned living space. We have a shared favorite stove burner. 😆

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My friend Jill feels deeply. Her joy overflows into skips, hops, and dancing in the living room; into eye-sparkling quips and into spontaneous, suffocating hugs. Her sadness hangs heavy like a cloak, but unsuppressed and allowed to exist without resistance. Her anger flashes in the face of a process or person in the wrong; Jill’s a powerful advocate for what she knows is right. Her compassion and affection spill out in practical acts of service: facilitating a group event, seeking out someone on the margin of the group and gently pulling them into the circle, holding quiet space for a friend in need.

Jill is the reason, without question, that I am in Tennessee. After a conversation about shared burnout in the PT profession a couple summers ago, she was the one who gave my name to the department chair and facilitated my interview, shared her lecture slides and a primer on the eClass online learning platform, and arranged my subletting of her absent roommate’s bedroom in their apartment. I’m enjoying a dream job because of Jill’s role in Providence.

Though it sounds overstated, my friend Jill has changed my life.  I now feel permission to seek out situations that feel comfortable to me, existing as myself rather than always adapting myself to the demands of my environment. I’m more practiced in reserving space for myself. I am beginning to recognize that it’s okay to feel. Jill has served as my emotional doula, tackling the mighty task of teaching a Scandinavian stoic how to let feelings be felt, rather than flattened. My emotional pendulum has been freed (just a bit, anyway) on its rusty hinge and is now able to oscillate between open sadness and exuberant joy, quivering fear and stalwart confidence — all things I hadn’t experienced much before, seeing as they’re entities that can’t be expressed on a spreadsheet. But Jill didn’t just help me feel, she carved out a space for me to express feelings safely.

Jill invests deeply in those she spends time with, and I received a lion’s share of her time last year. That’s why this blog post, overflowing with camaraderie and joy, is tinged by a shadow of melancholy. Life moves in seasons, and this season of sharing life with Jill as a roommate is closing. Just like all my other adult friendships, we’ll have to be extra intentional to invest time and energy into being friends, not allowing life’s interruptions to get in the way.

I’m inexpressibly grateful to have such a wonderful friend to invest time with. I believe we’ll still do the work to save rocks for each other, even if they’ll stay in our pockets for a day or two before sharing. But I suspect rocks gather more magic the longer they wait.

Dear reader: I sincerely hope you get to share rocks with someone. It’s a wonderful, wonderful thing.