Friend language—the pain of being lost in translation.

So, the last month and a half has been pretty tough—not the toughest, but tough enough to remind me that we have gotten through harder times, and we will get through more. I don’t expect that life will just suddenly stop throwing the occasional curve ball, but from time to time, you experience a little bit of peace, and you let it wrap around you like a soft, warm blanket. It’s cozy.

In life, whenever you decide to take on any major life change, you usually consider things that might come up—obstacles or challenges. But life is really more like the Spanish Inquisition—you just can’t expect or anticipate everything.

All you can do when things hit you in the face like a hard, cold rain is hope that you will be strong enough to get back up when you’re knocked down, and that maybe you and your family will have the support of good friends to lean on.

But there are going to be times when finding good friends is as challenging as whatever you’re going through—not because the people you look to are malicious or uncaring, but because they just can’t be what you need them to be in the moment.

And sometimes, being a good friend seems to be just as challenging as finding one. We’re all trying to get over hurdles, and at times those hurdles can make us feel like being there for someone else is just too exhausting and draining. For some of us, expressing care and understanding is like trying to speak another language.

Worse yet, sometimes the lives we’ve lived, and the way we have unevenly healed prevent us from learning that language.

I have many social foibles. I know where most of them come from, but that doesn’t make them any easier to deal with. I’m awkward. My self-esteem almost never allows me to believe that another person truly values my friendship. I tend to “fall in love” with friends—not romantically, but I still know it’s an infatuation of sorts. In the early days of a friendship, I sometimes think about that person so frequently that I start missing them like we’ve been separated by oceans—even if we’re in the same town, and saw each other last week. Sometimes it happens instantly. I meet someone who oozes joy, kindness, life force, or any number of other qualities that sweep me off my feet. Other times, it’s a slow burn, as I start to learn and understand what connects me to that person on a deeper level.

It might sound sweet that I care about people so much. Sometimes it’s not. It can be painful, because as friends, we don’t all “speak” the same language.

I remember this being a challenge as far back as second grade. There was a little girl in my class that everyone wanted to be friends with. She was pretty, always wore the cute and trendy clothes, and she already seemed to understand her power. Even in second grade, I was awkward. I wanted her to be my friend so badly! Sometimes she even let me believe she was. That made it all the more crushing when she would be unkind or thoughtless. All these years later, it still hurts when I think about it.

That pattern continued through most of elementary school. I believed people were my friends, and then I would get hurt—sometimes literally. I remember a couple of “friends” putting me in a tall, metal trash can in the girls restroom—upside down. I was scrawny, and short—I had a really tough
time getting out. But they assured me they were my friends, so I continued to let them pick on me for several more years.

Most people would learn something from these kinds of interactions, and I was no different. What I learned was that when you want to be friends with someone, you just try harder. Sadly, I never learned that this doesn’t always work. I still “friend” hard. And I still get hurt. And I still feel like an idiot. And I still blame myself.

As an adult, I sometimes can’t decide if those feelings have gotten better or worse. Having lived in my current town for just five years, and being a stay-at-home mom, I can very easily “hermit” and tell myself that I am quite content to do so. I probably am content to do so much of the time. So, I actually think this makes things feel even worse when a friendship experience becomes uneven and painful.

In my introverted awkwardness, I already tend not to put myself out in the world as much as many people. Now, I have fewer naturally occurring events that take me out into the world. So, when I force myself out of my shell for someone, and things don’t go well, I end up feeling like I lost, or never had, my “only” friend. It’s sad, and ridiculous. It’s crazy and foolish. But being able to recognize this doesn’t make it hurt less.

I was an only child for nine years. I learned how to play independently early on. I liked having friends to play with, but I also found it easy to entertain myself.

Now, my daughter is, and will always be an only child. She’ll be four this week. She’s impulsive. Sometimes, she’s explosive. And she hates playing alone. As a socially awkward introvert, who has been hurt a lot, it can be excruciating to watch her work through loneliness and trying to find companionship. In her four-year-old calculus, anyone she plays with is her friend. She never asks others to play with her. She always says ‘Will you be my friend?’ I try not to interfere, because I know I can’t learn “friend language” for her, but it can be gut wrenching to watch the person she asks struggle to answer honestly and without hurting her. A lot of the time, they sheepishly agree, but then try to ignore the fact that she is trailing along behind them.

I know that everyone has to learn their own language when it comes to friendship, but as a mom, I can’t help but try to coach her.

I try to prepare her before we get someplace that we may have to play together—she and I. I also try to tell her that sometimes, she should try saying ‘Will you play with me?’ instead, but she has a little bit of a stubborn streak, and seldom accepts advice.

Her impulsive behavior led her to paint her best friend’s face at school—twice. It’s been over a month since the incident. They haven’t played together in an official capacity since. I can’t repair the situation for her, but I have tried to help her understand that if we hurt someone, or act badly, it’s our job to apologize and do what we can to make things better or right. I am also trying to help her understand that sometimes, our efforts just won’t work.

Not a week goes by that she doesn’t ask about playing with her friend. And every time, I try to explain that sometimes when we hurt someone, we can’t fix it. Sometimes, our friends don’t forgive us. Sometimes, no matter how much we want it, they aren’t going to be our friends anymore.

It’s hard to watch your child struggle, but I know that she will have to learn her own way, and while I always want her to try and to work towards repairing friendships, I am cautious.

The word “friend” may be a noun, but for me, it is always a “verb.” No matter how many times I “fall in love” only to be crushed, I am sure that I will never stop “friending” too hard.

I want my daughter to build strong friendships and relationships, but I hope she learns that friendship requires a mutual give and take. There are always going to be times when a friend needs more support and care from you than they can immediately return, but when the shoe is on the other foot, it’s fair to hope that they will return the favor.

The “language” isn’t always easy. The pain can sometimes run deeper than others realize. The greatest friendships can last a lifetime—even when there are stumbles. Sometimes, there is no question that working on the translations is worth it.

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