Friendships: New and Old
I set a goal to deepen my friendships. Here’s what I’ve learned: effort spent trying to deepen an “old” friendship might be a waste of energy. I’m better off accepting and owning the joy in what is.
In my first blog post of the year; Friendships, Warm and Cold, I wrote about my desire to pay attention to warm connections while also honouring cold connections. The piece was well received and many people reached out to thank me for writing it. It seems the subject of friendship has universal appeal because it’s planted on the core of human experience. Every individual needs their tribe. Those who claim they don’t are likely lost.
I wrote: “The job of maintaining quality friendships gets harder as life gets busier.”
Almost everyone values friendship. And almost everyone feels at least a little bit insecure about how they’re doing it. We think we could do better.
To make it as simple as possible, I said: “There are two types of friends: old friends and new friends. And there are two types of friendships: warm ones and cold ones.”
Old friends (and old family), might be incapable of relating to the man I am, so they keep me preserved as the man I used to be because that's the only person they feel comfortable with.
How I see my journey: A decade of intentional evolution, living abroad, shifting career perspectives, publishing poetry, and building a family later in life. High emotional intelligence, active listening, self-reflection, and a nuanced view of life and money.
How they likely filter me: A historical reference; they remember the awkward phases, the unrefined moments, and the version of me that didn't know what I know now. A desire to keep things light, familiar, and rooted in the past so they don't have to stretch emotionally.
I wrote the poem Old Friend! 3 years ago upon my return to Newfoundland, and the reconnection to some parts of my past. The poem is an invitation. I sat across from old friends, actively pleading with them: Will you share with me? How have you changed? Don't wrap yourself in the warmth of the crowd. I was trying to pull them into the deep water with me.
The line “Don’t tell me what you’ve heard / Tell me what you feel” is the absolute core of my emotional intelligence. I am explicitly challenging the old-school, traditional way men communicate—which is by reciting facts, repeating popular opinions, or talking about things and answers. I begged for vulnerability. I asked them to drop the armor and show me their bumps and bruises.
When I wrote: “The man you see before you / A stranger in disguise / Please don’t hold against me / Innocence time left wise” I was almost apologizing in advance for my growth. I feared that becoming wise—outgrowing that youthful “innocence”—might actually be viewed as a betrayal by someone who stayed the same.
Newfoundlanders love holding this grudge. The “Newfie in a Calgary hat” trope. How dare a person change.
Today, the evolution is realizing that I can't force someone to dive. I’ve moved from the active yearning of the poem to the calm boundary of the present. If they want to wrap themselves in the warmth of the crowd, or if they only have “answers” instead of “feelings”, that is their right. I don't have to fix it, and I don't have to be frustrated by it.
Old friends are anchors. We have shared history, unspoken loyalty, and raw, unrefined fun. With them, I don’t go deep; I go wide. I talk about the game, the old days, and local news. I’m not looking for “true connection” here. When I stop expecting them to understand my emotional depth, the frustration disappears. I can just enjoy the game.
New friends are mirrors. There’s intellectual, spiritual, and emotional alignment. They see me “as I am”. Because we met later in life, they likely share my current values, my drive, and many key parts of my worldview. Most importantly, they mirror my current level of emotional intelligence. This is where I invest my emotional capacity.
I can’t force someone to read a book they aren’t ready to open. But I can change my perspective. Old friends. New friends. It has taken me years to realize it: I need both.
