A good bra supports you. A good friend carries you.

Over the summer, I was lucky enough to visit northern Italy by taking advantage of a pre-planned work trip and sneaking away for two days alone to enjoy Lake Como and Bergamo.

One morning was spent running the cliff trail from Lecco to San Martino, a tiny church perched on the side of the mountain. One evening included Aperol spritzes and dancing for hours to live bands playing along the shore.

I shouldn’t complain.

But despite the incredible scenery and experiences, I felt the “solo” in my solo travel weekend.

And that surprised me.

I’m an incredibly independent, introverted person. I genuinely adore time alone—wandering, thinking, getting lost in my own head. I’m perfectly comfortable in my own company.

But somewhere between the mountains and the lake, I realized that being comfortable alone and wanting to experience life alone are two very different things.

I’ve hit a point in my life where I realize I’m on the back half.

Time is precious.

Moments set with the sun.

And I don’t want to simply collect beautiful places. I want to collect beautiful memories—the kind that come from shared experiences with people who float in and out of our worlds and somehow leave us a little tougher, smarter, sillier, or less serious than they found us.

One of those people is the friend you never have to remind that you’re still there.

The friend you can call after six months and pick up the conversation exactly where you left it.

The friend who doesn’t require maintenance, explanation, or performance.

She just gets you.

And maybe that’s what my little solo adventure in Italy was trying to teach me.

We spend so much of our lives becoming independent. Learning to do things ourselves. Building careers. Raising families. Solving problems. Becoming strong enough that we don't need anyone else to carry us.

And that strength is beautiful.

But strength was never meant to mean alone.

Because when life finally gets quiet enough to breathe—when you're standing on a mountain in Italy, watching the sun hit the water, or sitting alone at a table with an Aperol spritz—you start to realize that some of life's most beautiful moments aren't really complete until you have someone to turn to and say,

“Can you believe we're here?”

 

So, if you can think of at least one friend who fits that description—the one who just gets you without trying or working hard—call her.

Text her.

Send her a ridiculous postcard.

Write her a love letter.

Tell her you love her.

Not because she needs reminding.

Because you do.

Because the older I get, the more I believe that the measure of a beautiful life isn't how much we can accomplish on our own.

It's how deeply we connect while we're here.

It's the people who make us laugh until our stomachs hurt.

The women who show up when we need them.

The friends who can sit beside us in silence.

The ones who make an ordinary Tuesday feel like an adventure.

The ones who remind us that we don't have to carry everything alone.

Maybe that's what Italy gave me.

Not an appreciation for traveling alone, but an appreciation for who I want beside me when I travel through the rest of my life.

Because eventually, the mountains fade.

The sunsets end.

The Aperol spritzes are empty.

But the people we shared those moments with?

Those are the memories we carry home.

So, this is your reminder to find your people.

Tell them you love them.

Make the plans.

Take the trip.

Send the text.

And never underestimate the power of a simple:

“I love you, Sista. XOXO.”

Because life is too short—and much too beautiful—to experience all of it alone.

(But at least you can look well-supported in your bra while you're figuring it all out.)