• When I was 25, I moved to a new city where I had no friends and knew no one.
• I started going to the same café every evening and then began playing a game with the regulars.
• Showing up at the café consistently became the key to building friendships.

At 25, I had a great group of friends. We'd have our religious Sunday brunches once a month, and our not-so-religious coffee catch-ups once a week. It was perfect.

But then I got a new job and was forced to move to a new city in India where I knew no one, ripping me from the social life I loved.

Thankfully, my new job took me to a beautiful, slow-paced city, and I loved navigating my new life there. After this honeymoon phase, I needed something more — something that broke the home-to-work and work-to-home monotony. I needed friends, or at least connections.

That's when I found a lovely, Instagram-worthy café to visit in the evening. Most nights, I'd head there, have tea, and people-watch. That was until I made the connections I so desperately needed.

I felt the need for connection

I'd watch people walk into the café, spot someone they know, give a big smile, a frantic wave, walk toward them, and leap into a hug.

I wanted to be part of that, so I tried to impress people with my mediocre conversational skills. I'd make eye contact with all the fellow customers, hoping they'd come over and speak to me. But they'd just wave from afar and get on with their thing.

Then came one rainy day. As I waited for the rain to simmer down, I spotted a guy across the café playing Carrom, a traditional Indian wood board game, alone. I knew how to play and figured it was the perfect way into a conversation.

I went over and asked if he was up for a game. We were equally bad. Two months later, we got better, and two other players joined our Carrom ritual.

I spent the next few months getting better at Carrom and found three others who loved the game equally. Multiple times a week after work, I'd head to the café for tea and a few games. I mostly lost, but I'd befriended the café's chef, a business owner, and a software developer.

When my roommate was away for a month, the café kept me sane. On one particularly lonely day, I ended up having an hourlong conversation with one of the managers. Until then, the longest conversation I'd had with her was, "Hi." I didn't expect to connect so easily with her, but I was grateful it happened when I needed it the most.

Consistently showing up helped me make connections

Consistency was a game changer in meeting new people in my new city. Everything was consistent: the café, my beverage order (which led to many tea-related conversations between the chef and me), and Carrom.

When I moved away from that city two years later, I was proud of the community I built. Not every connection was a deep friendship, but I met people who kept my life fun and interesting. They were the one constant in my life at that time.

When I went to the café one last time, I sat alone during rush hour, nodding and smiling at everyone I knew. The Carrom board was occupied, and no one had time for a conversation. I didn't mind because I knew that when I visited next, my friends would be there, smiling, waving, and asking me if I was up for a game.

• I was stressed about money, and meanwhile, my best friend made six figures.
• She offered me $10,000 to ease my stress, but it wounded my pride, so I didn't take it.
• The offer almost cost us our friendship, but opening up about our feelings brought us back together.

In India, I stretched my husband's modest income (which, back in 2018, was about $6,000 USD) like a tightrope — every rupee meticulously budgeted, every luxury nothing more than a distant dream. He was our sole breadwinner while I stayed home, and we had no other income to cushion us if things went awry. (For context, that year, the average annual salary in India was only about $2,000 to $3,000.)

Meanwhile, my best friend — earning six figures abroad — lived in a different universe: spontaneous weekend getaways, designer bags, casual brunch invites I could barely fathom, let alone afford. For 15 years, we had tiptoed around this financial divide, pretending it didn't exist.

But eventually my stress began to spill over: tears in my voice, money worries seeping into every late-night message. She saw it all and grew exhausted from hearing about my anxiety on repeat. One afternoon, weary of my constant venting, she offered me $10,000 "to fix it," as though a cash infusion could mend my bruised pride and soothe my restless mind.

I froze. "No, it's too much," I stammered.

She looked hurt. "Why? It's no big deal."

Her ease stung worse than the offer itself, and a friendship I cherished suddenly felt fragile. That money could've eased years of financial worry — but instead, it nearly cost me my best friend.

Her offer wounded my ego

She'd seen my frayed edges — texts about bills, tears over a broken fridge — and thought cash could stitch me up. Instead, it tore me open. Anxiety clawed deep. Was I a charity case? Memories of laughing over chai and cheap samosas felt warped by pity.

Her intent was kind, but the financial gulf between us — her jetting off at a moment's notice, me counting rupees — started to feel unbridgeable. I couldn't find the words to explain what her offer stirred up in me. She looked surprised, maybe even hurt, when I pulled back.

"I just wanted to help," she said. But the damage was done. I stopped texting. Her calls went unanswered. The money sat unclaimed; it was a wedge, heavier by the day. Her offer wasn't the solution she imagined, and it couldn't fix what was really wrong. In fact, it nearly broke us. My stress wasn't just about cash; it was about dignity and my identity, things no amount of generosity could fix.

Honesty brought us back together

Weeks of silence dragged on — her WhatsApp pings faded, and my guilt intensified. I missed her laugh, our late-night rants, but I couldn't face the pity from her I'd conjured in my head. Finally, I cracked.

"We need to talk," I texted.

On a shaky call, I spilled everything: Her offer had felt like judgment, not a gift. She was stunned.

"I just wanted you to stop hurting," she said softly, her voice breaking. She hadn't meant to buy me.

I admitted my insecurity — how her wealth made me feel small, how I'd let resentment fester silently. It wasn't easy. She confessed guilt, realizing she'd unknowingly nudged me toward luxuries I couldn't afford and suggesting trips, fancy dinners, and shopping sprees, never seeing how much I was quietly struggling beneath the surface. We cried, laughed, and swore our way through mugs of virtual chai.

The money? Forgotten. She never mentioned it again. What truly brought us back together wasn't a check or money transfer; it was finally acknowledging the unspoken mess we'd ignored for years. I learned that closeness isn't about shared lifestyles — it's about shared honesty. I still count coins; she still jets off. But we're more open now. That difficult conversation didn't erase the gulf; it built a rickety bridge across it.

While $10,000 might have offered some temporary stability, it wasn't worth what I almost lost. Friendship isn't about equal wallets; it's enduring the gaps.

• I always wanted to have older friends, and I finally made a group of them in a writer's group.
• I am grateful for their advice and perspectives.
• They've taught me that aging can bring confidence and that each season of life brings new things.

In my 20s, a friend of mine had friendships with a few older women that I envied. They weren't mentors to her, but genuine friends, which meant when she shared her vulnerabilities, they also shared theirs. I could tell how much she gleaned from their sage advice and perspectives. There was a confidence that came from their proven life experience, and I wanted to learn from that, too. But I had no idea how to make older friends.

A few years later, when I was 27, I joined a writer's critique group and unexpectedly gained the valuable relationships I had been hoping for with people in their 50s, 60s, and 70s. Perhaps the best part of having older friends who write memoirs and essays is that I am privy to their stories and their perspectives on life's hardships, and I hear what they think about my work and experiences, as well. Here are some of the most helpful things I've learned from them.

We often trade one hardship for another

As a mother of three young kids, part of me started to look forward to that season in life when I would have "me time" again. No children waking me in the middle of the night, no interruptions from my work when I was in deep focus mode, just peace and quiet and a schedule on my terms.

I used to think the child-rearing season in my life was supposed to be a time of profound selflessness, but having older friends taught me that we often trade one hardship or caretaking responsibility for another.

One of my friends cared for her husband through more than 20 years of illness due to Lewy Body Syndrome and early-onset Parkinson's. Still another is a tireless caretaker for her wheelchair-bound husband. And I have friends caring for their adult children, too, for mental and physical health-related reasons.

While caretaking isn't a universal experience, every stage of life has its own inherent difficulties. Rather than relying on future "me time" when my children are older, I've started pursuing my hobbies and interests alongside raising them. Last summer, I had the opportunity to hike the Grand Canyon, but I worried about leaving my 1-year-old for the first time and the short training window.

My friend Kerri grabbed my hand and said, "Go, don't let fear hold you back."

"Hike it while you still have good knees," another friend, Linda, added.

Because my older friends encouraged me, I went and had an unforgettable hike.

Whatever life throws at you, it's best to keep a positive perspective

Linda cared for her mother after a dementia diagnosis.

"That must've been so hard," I said, pityingly.

"It was an absolute privilege," Linda answered.

I want to be more like Linda and accept each new phase of life as a privilege and an opportunity for growth.

Aging can bring a new level of self-confidence

One day, I confessed to Kerri that despite my best efforts, my newfound love handles seemed determined to stick around.

She responded with a knowing smile. "As we age, our bodies settle into themselves." She said it like it was a good thing — and for the first time, I wondered if that could be true.

Some of my friends say aging has brought a new level of confidence. They've stopped caring what other people think quite so much, and choose to be themselves unapologetically. Despite wrinkles and flabbier arms and mid-sections, they feel more comfortable in their own skin. I'm told it's liberating.

I find their authenticity inspiring and refreshing to be around. I want to be confident in the "settling," too, and not worry so much about achieving lifelong, youthful perfection.

There's a part of us that never really ages

"You never stop feeling like you're 23," Linda told me once. "My mom used to say it to me, but I didn't believe her. Now I do."

She smiled, her dimples prominent. "Our bodies age, but our spirits stay young."

Linda says that part of feeling young forever is always learning and experiencing new things, and age is just a number.

I believe her.

• In 2022, I moved to Canada to be with my boyfriend.
• I figured it would be easy to readapt to a new place; I had done it before during college.
• I had to make an effort to make friends of my own.

In 2022, when I moved from India to Canada, I was so excited to reunite with my boyfriend (now husband) that I didn't think about the challenges of moving.

I had jetted across the world before, at 17, when I moved to the US for college. If I could adapt then, how hard could it be 10 years later? It turns out very.

I realized that all my friends were my husband's friends whom he met through his MBA in Canada. While I appreciated the social circle he has built and found some deep friendships through it, for me, the thrill of moving also meant meeting new people.

In college, you can find friends through classes, clubs, and parties. Living in a big city like Toronto, I wasn't too sure. So, I started looking right in my proximity.

I joined a gardening community in my condo

Condo living isn't conducive to making new friends. Most people are on their phones even on 20-second elevator rides. But I found out that my building had a garden community. As a plant lover, I signed up for it.

The first meeting felt surface-level. By the second meeting at the rooftop terrace, people got chattier as we were turning the soil to plant new seeds. A fellow member complimented me on my outfit, and we started talking. She was a business owner like me, and my heart did a little dance at the thought of us having much to talk about.

We started casually hanging out in our building before going out for drinks. I realized she was easy to talk to and a truly genuine person. We've been friends for a year, and the best part is we can make impromptu plans such as going for a walk, having breakfast, or having a girls' night at home.

I learned that you must be willing to take chances to meet people, giving an authentic compliment is a great way to start a conversation, and friendships that require little planning are the best.

I signed up for a book club

In the summer of 2024, I found out that a coffee shop near my house was starting a book club. As a lifelong reader, I signed up. With a dozen or so members at each meeting, I loved our intellectual discussions. Though we weren't friends who hung out regularly, it was nice to see them every month and share a completely different type of friendship based on a deep love for stories. I would also see many of them whenever I popped by at the café.

I learned that not all friendships have to be built around constantly texting, drinking, or sharing meals. Having friends that you see only to play a sport or discuss a book with can be equally fulfilling.

I got a gym membership

When I lived in New York, I met many people through hot yoga. I wanted to replicate that in Toronto. Almost two years ago, I used ClassPass to attend a strength training session at a nearby gym. Though the class made me unsure of my cardiovascular health, the trainer (and owner) made me feel much more at ease. Soon, my husband and I signed up for their membership. We became friends with the owner couple, who were extremely warm, friendly, and attentive.

My best and earliest memory of them is celebrating Diwali at our place. Even though the festival was new to them (they're Lebanese), they blended in with our friends, played games, and even tried to speak Hindi. We've been friends ever since — having game nights, celebrating birthdays and ugly sweater parties, and enjoying many fun — and grunting — moments at the gym. Through this community, I've also found many other friends, all in different stages of life, often opening my eyes to unique perspectives.

I learned that having friends who are different from you is extremely important. Living in a city can feel like spending most days in a bubble. Having friends from various professions, backgrounds, and even age groups has helped me look at life in a more wholesome and selfless way.

As a newcomer to Toronto in my late 20s, I thought cultivating new friendships would be tough. But these avenues opened new doors for me. I'm happy that I put myself out there because it led to some amazing new and, hopefully, long-lasting friends.

• OpenAI retracted a ChatGPT update after it made the AI chatbot overly sycophantic.
• The update used a new source of user feedback as a reward signal, leading to excessive agreeability.
• OpenAI acknowledged the mistake and shared lessons learned. I have better advice.

OK, get ready. I'm getting deep here.

OpenAI messed up a ChatGPT update late last month, and on Friday, it published a mea culpa. It's worth a read for its honest and clear explanation of how AI models are developed — and how things can sometimes go wrong in unintended ways.

Here's the biggest lesson from all this: AI models are not the real world, and never will be. Don't rely on them during important moments when you need support and advice. This is what friends and family are for. If you don't have those, reach out to a trusted colleague or human experts such as a doctor or therapist.

And if you haven't read "Howards End" by E.M. Forster, dig in this weekend. "Only Connect!" is the central theme, which includes connecting with other humans. It was written in the early 20th century, but it's even more relevant in our digital age, where our personal connections are often intermediated by giant tech companies, and now AI models like ChatGPT.

If you don't want to follow the advice of a dead dude, listen to Dario Amodei, CEO of Anthropic, a startup that's OpenAI's biggest rival: "Meaning comes mostly from human relationships and connection," he wrote in a recent essay.

OpenAI's mistake

Here's what happened recently. OpenAI rolled out an update to ChatGPT that incorporated user feedback in a new way. When people use this chatbot, they can rate the outputs by clicking on a thumbs-up or thumbs-down button.

The startup collected all this feedback and used it as a new "reward signal" to encourage the AI model to improve and be more engaging and "agreeable" with users.

Instead, ChatGPT became waaaaaay too agreeable and began overly praising users, no matter what they asked or said. In short, it became sycophantic.

"The human feedback that they introduced with thumbs up/down was too coarse of a signal," Sharon Zhou, the human CEO of startup Lamini AI, told me. "By relying on just thumbs up/down for signal back on what the model is doing well or poorly on, the model becomes more sycophantic."

OpenAI scrapped the whole update this week.

Being too nice can be dangerous

What's wrong with being really nice to everyone? Well, when people ask for advice in vulnerable moments, it's important to try to be honest. Here's an example I cited from earlier this week that shows how bad this could get:

To be clear, if you're thinking of stopping taking prescribed medicine, check with your human doctor. Don't rely on ChatGPT. 

A watershed moment

This episode, combined with a stunning surge in ChatGPT usage recently, seems to have brought OpenAI to a new realization. 

"One of the biggest lessons is fully recognizing how people have started to use ChatGPT for deeply personal advice," the startup wrote in its mea culpa on Friday. "With so many people depending on a single system for guidance, we have a responsibility to adjust accordingly."

I'm flipping this lesson for the benefit of any humans reading this column: Please don't use ChatGPT for deeply personal advice. And don't depend on a single computer system for guidance.

Instead, go connect with a friend this weekend. That's what I'm going to do.

• I met some of my closest friends in an online writing group.
• We talk every Monday night and are from all different locations and generations.
• I tell them things I don't tell some of my closest friends and family members.

I pulled my hair back, cracked my knuckles, and prepared to greet my friends. A group of people I relied on for guidance, and to feel heard. In return, I provided the same. For almost two years, we've convened every Monday night for what we affectionately refer to as "weekly therapy." But we all come from separate homes and locations, and most have never met in person.

Our initial chance encounters started when we all joined a virtual writing class with a popular teacher and mentor separately. After it ended, I was desperate to hold onto the community I'd cultivated. Like any freelancer, life was lonely at times.

When I decided to organize my own group, my initial intentions were simple — to gain accountability and feel less isolated.

I'd been in online groups before, but this one stuck

It had worked during the 2020 lockdown, when Zoom events and Skype meetups with friends became as essential as food and water. In the midst of infertility, I joined my first online support group. A safe space filled with women, none of whom I knew, but who actually related to me. Having them was crucial for my mental health.

Once life returned to a version of normal, and my fertility struggles continued, I came to outgrow the forum. I organized the writing critique group a few years later, assuming, like the other virtual spaces I'd been part of, it would be an outlet for extra support and company — and likely be short-lived.

Instead, the two-hour, once-a-week gatherings surpassed my expectations and evolved beyond what I imagined.

I've shared things with them that my IRL family and friends don't know

In the first online meeting, 12 strangers showed up. That dwindled to eight people, who turned into real friends despite our access to each other being mostly relegated to the tiny squares that housed us all virtually. At times, I felt more authentic with them than with family or people I've known my entire life. One woman, to whom I'm particularly close, I told things I haven't shared with my closest confidantes.

When I got pregnant, I never announced it on social media. However, I confided in my group, who knew of my past struggles. To my surprise, my friend — the one I'm closest to — organized an entire baby shower for me over Zoom.

On a warm Monday night last May, they blanketed me with love and support and watched as I opened the packages they'd sent me. I was teary-eyed to find that each one contained a children's book for my baby. In that moment, I felt an aura of love around me that stayed with me long after I signed off.

Despite our differences, we're important to each other

Under different circumstances, we might never have known one another. We're a band of intergenerational members, ranging from early 30s to late 60s, including one guy, with vastly different personalities and from differing cities and backgrounds. Together, we've formed a healing community of love and belonging, one whose existence provides me with a sense of security, even when I'm not online with them.

My Monday nights reminded me that you don't have to go far, or always look hard to find your people. A common goal — in our case, writing — connected us all in the beginning. Now, it's our links to each other that keep the heart of our intimate bonds pumping. Sometimes the most unexpected, worthy friendships — even those separated by distance, or bound by a screen — become the most significant.

• My friend Emma and I met at work, and we instantly connected despite our differences.
• We're 17 years apart. I'm Gen X and she's a millennial.
• I've learned a lot from her over the years, and we work well together.

The first time I met Emma, we were in a high school cafeteria. It was my second year as an educational tech, and she had just joined our school district in the same role. Essentially, we served in support roles, helping teachers and students.

"This is Emma," my friend Cheryl, also an edtech, said. "She'll be working in one of the special education rooms."

What I didn't know at the time was that I had just met someone who would be so pivotal to my future. We were so different. Emma was 17 years younger than me. I was a 43-year-old mother of four who had been married for a long time. She was 25 and recently married. I was Gen X, and she was a millennial, closer in age to my eldest son than she was to me. I often made pop culture references that she was clueless about because the divide was so great.

"You could have been my babysitter," Emma would joke. "You could have been her mother," my aunt, who was a retired teacher, said when I told her about my new friend and coworker. There was no reason our friendship should have blossomed, but it did.

We became friends despite our differences

Each day, we navigated primary school together. We spent three years working at the neighborhood K-2 school. We were inseparable and often paired to deal with the most significant behavior issues. When we walked down the hall, people would comment about how opposite we were. Emma was 5'11" and I stood at just 5 feet. She watched Law & Order religiously and went to bed early. I stayed up late and watched anything scary. At times, Emma seemed more mature than I was.

At work, people were in awe of our easy and organic bond. We just fit. Our humor was similar too. Fits of hysterics often followed when we spent time together. Once we got going, it was hard to stop.

I watched Emma tackle pregnancy and motherhood. I saw her finish her degree and become a teacher. She helped me navigate issues in my marriage and was always there to listen. Her husband, who was a trained plumber, came to my house to do work. Emma offered support when I returned to school for my master's in education. For two years, we worked together with ease and comfort. People envied our natural banter and how similar our stance was on working with some of the most challenging students.

I moved to another school, but we ended up working together again

After I finished my degree, I moved to another school district. We stayed in touch, meeting for dinners with our old team from that neighborhood school. Though we were not able to meet up as often as we wanted to, we always fell right back into our comfortable routine with endless banter. I watched Emma transform into an amazing mother and teacher. She got a job in another neighborhood school in the district. I marveled as she tackled another advanced degree to further her teaching career.

This past summer, a position opened up in the school where Emma was teaching. Excited at the possibility of working with one of the best work friends I've ever had, I applied. I was almost placed in another position in the district, and then, luckily, at the last minute, I got the job I wanted. The first time I went to the school, as I stood in Emma's classroom, I sent her a text. It was an unbelievable moment that made me teary-eyed.

We work in classrooms across the hall from each other. The kids we teach watch us model teamwork and what that means. They understand that the two teachers they spend so much time with are also friends.

Emma has also become a mentor to me in many ways since she's been at the school longer than I have. Her scheduling skills are superior to mine, and her natural abilities as a leader shine through as we manage our fantastic team of edtechs. She has taught me so much, not just this year, but since I've met her. I'd like to hope she has learned something from me as well.

Emma will finish her master's in May, and I recently applied for my doctorate. We are proud of each other and thrilled that we finally get to teach together. Even with our age gap and generational differences, we have forged a lasting and solid friendship. I am grateful.

• I'm a Gen Xer, and most of my friends were my age or older.
• Then, I started working closely with a Gen Z colleague and realized the value of younger friends.
• She moved to a different state, but we're still close, and I've sought out other younger friends.

As part of Gen X, for most of my life, my work friends have typically been relatively close to me in age. Yet, after over 23 years of teaching public school, I've experienced a newfound joy in working with younger colleagues. I appreciate their energy and enthusiasm, not to mention their technology skills.

But it wasn't until two years ago, when I met Ms. Barry, that I became actual friends with one of them and finally got the younger sister figure I always wanted.

Our working relationship turned into a friendship

I'm the English as a second language teacher, and she was the English language arts teacher at our school, and when we started working more closely together, I was surprised at how easy she was to work with. She was one of the few teachers who would not only ask for my suggestions but also use them. Perhaps most importantly of all, we often found ourselves laughing out loud together.

When I needed to start a Saturday program for a month to help our recent immigrant arrivals, I had to find another teacher willing to work on the weekend with me, a daunting task. Most people had prior commitments or kids to take care of over the weekend — or simply didn't want to give up their time — but not her.

She was happy to get up early on Saturday mornings and help out. She always came in cheery and ready to help, even offering to bring items and texting me ahead of time to check in. In my experience, this kind of collaboration has been hard to come by. We spent the next few weeks teaching our students how to cook, paint, and speak English, helping them see that people of all backgrounds can work together. We belly-laughed a lot as well.

As English teachers, we both loved writing and literature, but we also loved to travel. She was always eager to hear about my time abroad, my house upstate, and my latest dates. She was never judgmental, like some of my friends could be, but was always on my side, something I really needed.

She moved away, but we remained friends

She confided in me that she was going to move to Montana, and we continued to work together for the rest of the year. I was excited for her; moving around was something I also did at her age, but I also felt a pang of loss. I had just lost my mother. It was the same year I was losing my other work bestie, the latter a grandmother who was retiring.

The following year, I was surprised at how much I missed having a younger coworker as a friend and texted her often. When I had a funny story to tell or a new crush, I missed having her eager ear nearby. While I was glad to hear about her travels, and I understand her generation's need to job hop, I still felt her absence.

I always wondered how those relationships with huge age gaps worked out, and now I realize that, in some cases, we need people who are different from ourselves at certain times in our lives. We need that balance.

Every time I hear from her, I smile. She texted recently to tell me she thought I resembled the actor Lily James, and now I love her even more. Our friendship prompted me to seek out more friends who are younger than I am. I realized I liked hearing their perspectives and advice.

It wasn't simply about having someone to be young and silly with because I'm around children all day; it was more about having someone to be myself with and appreciating me for my life experiences.

• When I was younger, my friend group was much more fluid, and I had fewer boundaries.
• Now that I'm a parent, I'm more discerning about who I let in my inner circle.
• I want to model healthy boundaries for my children.

I've always been a people pleaser, and once I flew the coop, I also became an adventure seeker.

In my 20s, I enjoyed living in other places, traveling the country, and meeting new people with different backgrounds and wide, varying perspectives on life, politics, and faith. Because of my nomadic lifestyle and audacious personality, I would quickly and easily allow people into my inner circle like water flowing in, uninhibited.

I had an insatiable desire for unique experiences and a multifaceted community, no matter the cost. Throughout that time, I found myself excusing behaviors in friends that hurt me or others around them, and I had a hard time speaking up when I should have because of my people-pleasing habit.

I didn't learn how to create healthy boundaries from my parents

I wasn't raised in a household that modeled healthy boundaries or welcomed difficult conversations. I was taught to be amenable and not to question authority, even when injustice was being done. Thus, I wasn't equipped to deal with certain interpersonal challenges when they inevitably arrived in adulthood. I continued the pattern of sweeping big, important things under the rug for the sake of not ruffling feathers.

Through therapy, I've learned how to set boundaries in both new and old relationships, and I hope to pass these hard-learned lessons down to my daughters, even from a young age. For example, I estranged my father six years ago, and I've allowed ideological tension to break yearslong friendships in order to welcome more peace and ease into my everyday life and, in turn, open the door to more time, energy, and space for new relationships to take form.

As I near 40, I'm being more thoughtful about who I spend time with

I'm also close to 40 now and have become more discerning about who I let into my inner circle because of my daughters, those little sponges who are incessantly collecting information about the world around them and themselves. Yes, it's important for our kids to be exposed to all different walks of life, but I think it's also important for the next generation to be selective of who they surround themselves with — both online and offline — which is why I've taken my job as their role model very seriously during these formative years of their lives.

When we interact with other families, either through school or other celebratory occasions, I like to remind my children that other people do things differently and that that doesn't mean that they're better or we're better, and that's OK. That's actually good because it shows my children everyone has their own volition and can choose their own path that feels right for themselves and their families. Lately, this has looked like an explanation of why some kids go to after-care, and she doesn't — their parents work until 5 p.m. — or why some friends celebrate Hanukkah instead of Christmas.

In the last couple of years, my husband and I have become more settled and focused on laying down roots in our new city, where we hope to stay for a beat or two and continue fostering deep, meaningful relationships. I've whittled my inner circle group to folks who root for me and whom I root for — reciprocal relationships. I've also added distance between old friends and acquaintances who have unaligned beliefs and values to my own.

I've also become more reflective about the benefits and drawbacks of certain friendships, and even though my children may not be fully aware, my hope is that, through my example, they will one day be able to recognize that they can be deliberate about their choices, and they should be, in order to protect themselves — in order to protect their hearts.

• I lived in Spain for a year and wanted to mountain bike there, but I didn't want to do it alone.
• One day, I asked two strangers I saw fixing a tire if I could join them someday, and they agreed.
• We quickly became friends as we adventured and still keep in touch today.

In 2017, at age 31, I moved from New York City to rural Spain to teach English for a year. On the way to school on the first day, I spotted a thin, tantalizing trail winding through the dehesa, a landscape of rolling hills, burnished grass, and lonely cork and oak trees. I loved mountain biking, but the previous summer, I had been chased by dogs on a solo ride, and I'd fallen badly. I was too afraid to explore that landscape alone.

I bought a used bike and started commuting to school, an hour each way. I never saw a dog, but the sound of barking — often imagined — regularly sent me into a panic.

One morning, I saw two men in their late 50s or early 60s stopped at the side of the road, examining their bikes.

"Need help?" I said.

"Thanks, we're just putting the chain back on," said one.

I had a crazy idea. "You guys bike the trails around here?"

The answer was yes. They were locals and biked the dehesa every weekend.

I gulped. "Do you think I can come with you sometime?"

A foreigner half their age, I got skeptical looks, but we exchanged numbers. I soon had second thoughts. We didn't have anything in common, and the three of us would be bored, awkward, and miserable. I should find people my age. But they called, and my yearning for the trail won.

They gave me a test, and I passed

Pedro and Angel took me on a four-hour ride from the riverside to a valley piled with boulders, to an oak-shaded lane, and finally, to what looked like a fort of massive stone slabs sunk into the earth. It was a 4000-year-old tomb, or dolmen. As we stood around drinking water and feeling pleased with ourselves, it wasn't awkward at all.

Without saying much about it, we became inseparable, three overgrown kids running riot through a fairy-tale landscape. We spun around a Roman reservoir, climbed to a 9th-century Arab castle, blazed through fields of wildflowers in spring. I wondered why the rides were usually shorter than the first one, and my friends admitted, laughing, that it had been a trial by fire. But I'd passed.

From that point on, we were a trio

Tall and broad, Pedro was a solid and disciplined rider with a steady demeanor to match. Angel, on the other hand, was a firecracker, small and noisy, constantly cursing and joking. Pedro kept Angel going, and Angel sparked Pedro's mischievous side. ("How are those churros treating you now, Angelito," Pedro taunted as Angel, cursing, struggled up a steep hill.)

My integration wasn't totally smooth. On an early ride, I thought Angel was babying me. I asked him to treat me like another buddy, not his daughter. To my shock, he listened. I had come to believe that men, especially ones my dad's age, couldn't listen, much less change.

One day, we were biking past a farm, and three barking dogs came shooting up to the fence. I almost jumped off my bike. When I explained why, Angel and Pedro rode on either side of me past the dogs. (True to his promise, Angel made fun of me as if I were one of the guys.) On later rides, they escorted me past grazing cattle and even two massive wild boars. In time, my body didn't crumble at the sight of an animal. Something besides my calves and lungs was getting stronger.

During a thunderstorm one day, while we sheltered in a railroad tunnel, Pedro stayed on his bike, grabbing the wall for balance. His knees were shot, he said, and would be replaced that summer. I couldn't believe it; I spent every ride eating his dust.

Summer came. Just before Pedro's surgery, I suggested we bag a prize Pedro had been eyeing: the tallest hill in the region. After a grueling climb up a seemingly endless switchback, we were hugging each other and enjoying the view. On the way down, I hollered like a wolf, freer than I'd been in years.

I left Spain, but we still keep in touch

In August, just before I left, Angel and I hit the trails at midnight to avoid the heat. With the full moon bathing the dehesa, we barely needed our headlamps on our way to the dolmen. Angel told me that he and Pedro couldn't believe the coincidence that had connected them with me: the foreign lady whom they now considered a true friend.

"It's these things that make life worthwhile," he said. "And you can't buy them or plan them."

I agreed. Their friendship — like the swaying trees, the stars, the ancient stone — was a gift, not something I could have taken by force of will. I felt humbled.

After I left town, I did something I had always wished I was brave enough to do: a two-week solo walk through the countryside. I have no doubt that the courage came from my friends.

Since leaving Spain, I've kept in touch with Pedro and Angel. I usually manage to have dinner with them and their wives once a year. We still laugh at our unexpected friendship. Pedro has two new knees now, so I've been joking about doing the Camino de Santiago, a bucket-list adventure for all three of us. Who knows, maybe we will.

• Billy is a popular hot dog vendor in our Upper West Side neighborhood in NYC.
• He met my son Cooper the day we brought him home from the hospital.
• The two struck up a friendship, and Cooper looks forward to seeing Billy whenever we're out walking.

New York City has over 23,000 street vendors, including 4,000 hot dog stands, but for my son, there's only one: Billy's Hot Cart. What started as a toddler's fascination with the hot dog man has become a daily visit, reminding me that community exists even in a massive city.

A daily ritual turned into a friendship

Billy met my son Cooper the day we brought him home from the hospital, and his face lit up. My family had been going to his hot dog cart for years, and he had tried (and failed) to win over my daughter, who was iffy on any food other than noodles. But in Cooper, Billy saw a chance.

Before the child even had teeth, Billy called him his "future customer." Now 3, Cooper dances through life, a vivacious little dude who makes friends everywhere. Billy's contagious laugh and magnetic personality make them the perfect buddy duo.

Every morning when we walk by, Cooper is met with an enthusiastic, "Look, it's the little man!" Cooper stops just to tell Billy about his day — swimming lessons, Taekwondo class, whatever is on his toddler mind, from trucks to dinosaurs to his best bud, Levi. Their conversations are both hilarious and heartwarming, given their obvious generational gap. And once Cooper started eating hot dogs? Game on. Billy truly found a lifelong customer.

Billy's cart often has a line down the block, but Cooper marches right up to the front, an unofficial VIP, and orders for himself and his friends. Billy jokes that Cooper is part owner, and that always makes the other patrons laugh. Cooper once preferred bunless hot dogs, an amusing sight in a stroller tray. These days, he orders them on a bun with ketchup. When Cooper and his friends don't want hot dogs, Billy refuses to let them go empty-handed, offering chips or lollipops or some other treasure.

Our family holiday card hangs on Billy's cart along with many others, a testament to long-standing community relationships. He is the unofficial mayor of the neighborhood and has fans from police to doormen to construction workers; even Peloton instructor and fellow Upper West Sider Matty Maggiacomo is a beloved fan.

Their friendship taught me about the importance of community

This unlikely bond is about more than just hot dogs. It's a reminder of the small, everyday friendships that give a city its heart. Cooper talks about Billy at home, misses him when he is not there, and races toward his cart with the excitement usually reserved for superheroes or ice cream trucks.

When I see Cooper chatting with Billy and claiming his place in this tiny corner of New York, I realize these moments shape my children. Through this surprising friendship, they find belonging and community.

These everyday interactions — ordering food, cracking jokes, feeling seen — become foundational experiences that transcend fleeting transactions and show us the power of meaningful and unexpected connections.

In a world that often pulls us apart, we can come together over human kindness — and a great hot dog.

• My twin sister and I weren't best friends growing up, despite the assumptions about twins.
• Our parents allowed — even encouraged — us to be individuals, and I'm thankful for that.
• It wasn't until we lived together for eight months a few years ago that we really became close.

People usually assume twins are figuratively attached at the hip and best friends, but that wasn't the case for my sister and me until we were almost 35. And I'm actually thankful my parents made an effort to ensure we could develop as individuals.

This meant insisting on us having different teachers throughout school — they even enrolled us in different high schools — and encouraging us to pursue the extracurricular activities that we wanted to do.

Even though they encouraged us to build our own lives, other people often assumed we came as a package deal. We either both got invited to birthday parties, or neither of us did. If one of us was doing an activity, we'd get questions about why the other wasn't participating. In school, the teachers often compared our achievements.

All of this contributed to us being fiercely competitive, hampering our ability to get to know each other. Looking back, I think we both felt pressure to achieve similar results because of the comparisons others would make of us when we didn't, and we felt a lot of misguided jealousy when one of us got more accolades or attention.

We lived together after college, but our friendship didn't develop

We attended different colleges but found ourselves both with job offers in Washington, DC, after graduating, and decided that it would be better to live together than with a stranger.

But instead of becoming closer, the move damaged what little of a friendship we had. We each had preconceived notions of the other's personality and lifestyle and found ourselves bickering nonstop. There was also unrealistic self-inflicted pressure to do everything together since we were now twins living with each other, which led to lots of frustration.

After a year of intense fighting, my sister moved to New York City while I stayed in DC.

We visited each other once or twice over the next three years, but it always felt like they were obligatory visits because that's what twins should do and not because we were close friends.

We had to address our differences when we ended up living together again

A decade later, my now-husband and I had moved to New York City, and my sister and her husband were still there. My twin and I were on better terms and basically on the level of good acquaintances, but we still didn't see each other often despite living in the same city.

When the pandemic hit, the four of us, plus my sister's 5-month-old son, decided to leave the city. We fled to my parents' house in the mountains of North Carolina, thinking we'd be there for a few weeks, but it turned into nearly eight months of living together.

We had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no one to see. Living with my twin gave us no choice but to get to know each other and confront our existing assumptions. This didn't come without its fair share of screaming matches, storming off after arguments, and periods of silent treatment, but in the end, we figured out we were way more similar than we had given each other credit for.

By the time we both moved to Raleigh, NC, we had become best friends.

I wish we had worked on our relationship sooner

I'm sad it took us this long to become best friends, but thankful that living together for those eight months forced us to get to know each other. I'd like to think that we would have gotten to where we are now at some point anyway, but I honestly don't know if there would have been any other scenario that would have forced us to really get to the root of our issues.

Now, we live five minutes apart, text all day, and see each other at least a few times a week. We are more attached at the hip now than we've ever been.

Society thinks twins will naturally want to be together all the time, and that assumption can make it tough when we don't meet that expectation. I wish other people could have seen my sister and me as individuals and just sisters growing up instead of assuming we were a two-for-one deal for everything.

• As a new mom living in a new area I felt isolated and craved adult interaction.
• Making friends as an adult is terrifyingly different than connecting with people at work or school.
• After putting myself out there, I met a lot of duds, but also made lasting connections.

I remember sitting in my feeding chair at 3 a.m. one night, clutching my newborn and feeling like the loneliest person in the world. Desperate for an adult connection with someone who understood the life I was now thrust into, I tapped out a needy message to a Facebook group full of women I'd never met.

"I've recently moved here and I have a toddler and a week-old baby, does anyone want to meet for a coffee?" I typed out.

I pressed send, tossed my phone on the bed and hoped my baby would sleep after her feed.

The next morning I woke up to a message from another mom,"We recently moved here, too, and my baby is 10 days old, let's meet. Coffee tomorrow?"

I was pleased and nervous.

I was in a serious relationship before dating apps really took off, so I wasn't used to putting myself out there and trying to actively meet people online. At school or work I'd made friends because we were in the same place at the same time. It was easy. Outside of work I had a circle of friends I'd known for years. This situation felt terrifyingly different, but I needed company, support, and to find people going through exactly the same experience I was. So I was determined to put myself out there and give it a go.

I felt like I was prepping for a date

On the big day, I thought about every single detail from my clothes, to opening lines, and conversation starters. I told my husband where I was going, in case the other mom was a murderous psychopath, and after my eldest daughter went off to nursery school, I bundled up my baby and walked slowly to our rendezvous with a nervous pit in my stomach.

When I arrived, I looked around, trying to work out which mom with a stroller was there for me, and feeling panicky.

But as soon as we sat down and exchanged our slightly stilted introductions, things started to flow. It was like we'd met each other before, in another life. Conversation came easily and we quickly realized there were many similarities between us. There were only 4 days between our babies and our older children were also similar ages and starting the same sports club, at the same time. It seemed like our connection was meant to be.

I came away from the date feeling positive. I'd made a friend. Since then, we've spoken regularly and seen each other every couple of weeks. Our children are friends and our families hang out together, too.

Not all friendship dates are created equal

Of course, for every genuine connection, it seems that there are a lot of duds out there, too. On one first meetup, the conversation with another woman was so painful that I reverted to work mode and started asking interview-style questions because it was all I could think of to do. After all, everyone likes talking about themselves.

Proving my point, during another first meetup my mom date spoke about herself for the whole two hours we were together. I'm not sure she even asked my baby's name. Unsurprisingly, at the end of both of these meetings, there was no hint of a second outing.

Awkwardly, one of the moms is someone I cross paths with every so often out and about. Sometimes we trade brief, insincere comments with each other, but nothing more.

And this is all okay. I know that I won't be to everyone's taste and others won't be to mine. This was a lesson I learned when I was dating, and it's something that is still relevant now. It's the way of the world and something I'm constantly trying to teach my children. They don't have to be friends with everyone, but they do need to be kind.

Putting myself out there, braving these mom dates has found me some of my best friends but also landed me in some seriously cringey moments. Friend dating is not for the faint-hearted, but it is definitely worth the time and effort.

• Nick Allardice, 38, lives in a brownstone in Brooklyn in an "intentional community."
• He and his partner bought the brownstone with three friends to reduce costs and create community.
• They have family dinners on Sunday nights and regularly spend time together.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Nick Allardice. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I grew up in an unconventional home.

My parents co-owned their large house in rural Australia with two other couples and their kids, forming an "intentional community."

That meant we had a shared kitchen and ate dinner together six nights a week. Next door lived close family friends with four kids, and next to them, another couple we knew well.

I was embarrassed about it, so I hid it at school. Kids often ridicule anything different, and I just wanted to fit in. I was self-conscious that they'd call my parents "hippies." I didn't know anyone whose home setup resembled mine.

Often, all seven kids from across the households would be in one part of the property watching a movie or playing games, while the adults gathered elsewhere, sharing wine, laughter, and conversation.

I realized the benefits later in life

I think that part of why it worked is because four of the adults were social workers. They worked with an interpersonal relationships expert who ran a couple of workshops at the start of living together about building values together, which helped them to divide the labor of chores, maintenance, cleaning, and cooking.

We'd have community days when we'd work on a group project like clearing land or digging a dam on the property — the parents within the intentional community made it fun for us.

It wasn't until my late 20s that I started reflecting on it as an extraordinary gift and a better way to live. I'd been so preoccupied with the fact that kids might make fun of living this way that I'd somewhat overlooked the many benefits. It offered a unique balance of friendship, support, and community while still providing the space and privacy that introverts need.

We decided to give it a shot

I discussed it with my partner, and she was sold; we were curious about whether we'd be able to replicate the atmosphere in a smaller, inner-city dwelling.

Since 2013, we've attempted it three times. We tried in Melbourne, Australia, and despite initial interest, we couldn't get our friends to commit. We tried in Oakland, California, and partially succeeded by renting with friends, but part of the idea was to co-own, both to save costs and intentionally build a community. Finally, we fully succeeded in 2021, when we became co-owners of a brownstone in New York with three friends, where we still live.

The three-story Brooklyn brownstone we live in has eight bedrooms, six bathrooms, and three living spaces. Five people live here permanently (and generally, at least one or two friends are staying at any given time), three work from home, and the other two work a hybrid schedule.

We have weekly 'family' dinners on Sunday night in the shared kitchen, hang out on the stoop together multiple times a week (usually spontaneously), and have helped each other through the highs and lows of health, career, love, and day-to-day life. I'll often play board games for four hours at short notice.

The paramount consideration in doing this was quality of life, but the financial benefits are also huge. The brownstone was easier for us all to afford because we pulled together and saved on all the costs associated with buying a property.

I've set my intentional community up slightly differently from the one my parents had. Space is a premium in New York, unlike in rural Australia, so we have three distinct units with less shared space. We hired a lawyer to draw up a contract for every potential scenario, from romantic separations to death, job loss, and house damage. If someone sells, the other co-owners get first refusal to buy from them; right now, we collectively pay a single mortgage.

They also helped us set boundaries for inviting people over and solving issues with each other. We're all very social creatures by nature, so we love having company, and there have been no major issues so far.

There's been a ripple effect, too. In 2022, three other friends replicated our exact model a few blocks away in their own three-unit brownstone. They've joined our weekly Sunday family dinners.

Proximity matters hugely for lowering barriers to friend hangouts — especially spontaneous ones. I'll compromise on pretty views, shorter commutes, and even the perfect apartment to be closer to my friends. It means, at the end of each day, my people are there without needing to think about it. That has enhanced my life more than any of those other things possibly could.

• After losing my job, I wanted to use my free time to catch up with people.
• I was nervous on my way to meet a stranger who had been my friend on LiveJournal.
• Reconnecting made me feel 19 again.

On a Wednesday afternoon in August, I sat at my kitchen table and tried not to sound creepy. I was about to slide into the DMs of a stranger who was maybe actually a girl I'd known on the internet.

Reaching into the past is like operating one of those arcade claw machines in a dark room: you'll emerge either with a treasured artifact or empty-handed. Even if the Instagram account I'd found was the same Sarah I'd known on LiveJournal as "lonelypainter," a reference to Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You," I didn't know if she'd want to reconnect. Not everyone is as nostalgic as I am.

I only had to wait 10 minutes for my answer. "Hi! You guessed correctly! It blew my mind a bit to see the username 'heyromeo' pop up in my notifications! Wow. It's great to hear from you! How have you been?"

We fell right into talking about art again, encouraging each other like we had all those years ago when I knew her as a writer, and she supported my budding literary identity.

I decided it was time for us to meet in person.

We lived about 2 hours away

Now, Sarah was also a musician, and I loved her clear, delicate voice as I listened to her song clips on Instagram.

After losing my job at the end of September, I resolved to take chances and catch up with people while I had the time. Sarah and I had only lived about two hours apart for most of the past 20 years; why not finally meet up "IRL"? She loved the idea, and we picked a Sunday in November.

I felt nervous when the day came as if preparing for a first date. What if the virtual friendship we remembered fondly didn't carry over to the real world?

Jason Isbell, one of Sarah's current favorite musicians, played softly on the television as we drank tea in her cozy living room. It felt like hanging out, particularly in college, when being under 21 or too broke to go out, leads to talking, watching movies, or listening to music in dorms and first-apartment living rooms.

I felt like I was 19 again

In the 15 years since we drifted away from LiveJournal, I was still married, now with two kids. Sarah said she felt like she'd "lived many lives." I told her about my novel-in-progress and we discussed the essays she'd recently published on her Substack about recovery and sobriety.

Before I left, Sarah played a few songs for me on piano and guitar, a John Prine cover and some originals. I felt goosebumps as I heard "Room To Move," a song about leaving an abusive relationship with a defiant chorus of "And I don't ever miss you."

Time collapsed; I felt 19, 41, and all the years between. The project of reading my LiveJournal and seeing Sarah's comments on nearly every entry inspired me to look for her. It also showed me how many people come into and out of our lives over the years. Staying close to all of them wouldn't be possible, nor is it always desirable. But I feel deeply grateful for every connection I ever made, however fleeting or painful.

"From my writer's heart to yours," Sarah signed her CD for me. I drove home listening to the songs I'd just heard live, my friend's voice filling the car with warmth, and a plan to return in March to see her play again.

• We didn't really know our neighbor of 11 years until my husband asked to borrow his truck.
• He not only said yes, but accompanied him on his errand. Afterward, he came over for dinner.
• We're still friends to this day, and he's a grandfather figure to our kids.

My husband and I found a sinkhole in our backyard. When we received a high bid to fix it, we decided to D.I.Y. the project following our contractor friend's detailed instructions.

The job required a few tons of dirt — more than our Subaru Forester could haul. My husband had eyed our neighbor's truck in the driveway. Even though we had lived next door to each other for 11 years, I really only knew his name was Gary and that he was a retired bachelor. During that time, we'd exchanged no more than neighborly waves and friendly small talk. I worried that asking him to help us haul dirt was too big an ask.

It proved to be one of the best things we ever did.

Gary was outside that day, watering his plants, and he willingly stopped to chat with my husband. He quickly offered to help when my husband asked for his assistance, seemingly not bothered by the 20-minute drive or the three yards of dirt plopped into his pristine truckbed.

It was the beginning of our friendship.

He stayed for dinner and basically became part of our family

My husband gassed Gary's truck, pumped up the tires, and washed the bed. As a thank you, I invited him to stay for dinner. To my surprise, he said yes. I worried our spunky children might annoy a bachelor and that the chicken I made was too dry. But Gary was pleasant about everything, from the children badgering him with questions (including "How old are you?") to the dog licking him incessantly.

When the evening was over, my husband said that Gary had told him he was in a new phase — he wanted to be more open to what life brought his way. Our request for help had given him the chance to say yes.

That first dinner together led to more. When we found out Gary's family was in Boston and that he would be spending the holidays alone, we invited him to join our large, boisterous family for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. To my continued surprise, he accepted. We extended an invitation for him to spend Christmas morning with our family, too, and filled a stocking with chocolates, coffee, mints, and other treats. And when we discovered that his birthday was three days after Christmas, my 6-year-old daughter and I made him a cake and gave him more chocolate while the family dog showered him with kisses.

Over time, he became a grandfather figure to my children. Reflecting on our friendship, it's wild to think we lived next door to Gary for more than 10 years before getting to know him. The same goes for another neighbor on our street. She and I are now close friends through our mutual love of writing. We, too, had been neighbors for more than a decade before we learned of our shared passion. I wish we'd gotten to know our neighbors sooner, but I'm still grateful for their friendships.

We love that our children are growing up with a sense of community

For Gary, our family fills that gap created by far-flung family. He even asked for a photo of us to share with his Boston relatives when he visited them recently. Our dog Maple enthusiastically greets him at every opportunity. He plays catch with our toddler. Our 7-year-old asks him to toss her in the air or watch her latest gymnastic trick, while our 12-year-old ensures we never forget him on our nightly walks.

I believe neighborhood relationships teach our children how to pursue unlikely friendships and care for others outside their inner circles. It's one of the greatest gifts of their childhoods to know neighbors like Gary. And to think it all happened because he said yes to an inconvenient errand and dinner invitation.

• Salim Elhila founded a crypto company with his friend, Tan Gera.
• Last year, the business made $13 million in revenue, and Elhila is now a multimillionaire.
• He and Tan spend most days together and travel together with their families.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Salim Elhila, cofounder of Decentralized Masters. It has been edited for length and clarity.

When I was in my early 20s, I quit my job and rented a van. I had been living in Australia at the time for that job and spent three months traveling the country from south to north. It was the ultimate freedom. I could just park the van and sleep wherever I wanted. I realized I desired a life with the freedom to go anywhere, anytime.

Before living van life, I was on track for a traditional finance career. I grew up in France and later Morocco. I studied math and engineering in France and started working in predictive finance after graduation. For six years, I moved up in corporate positions around the globe until I got that job in Australia.

It came with good pay and a nice lifestyle, but the work was making me miserable. I realized that the corporate world, with its strict frameworks, wasn't for me.

I kept traveling and discovered e-commerce

After traveling around Australia, I went to Bali. There, I spotted a guy working on his laptop on the beach. He explained to me that he had an e-commerce company and was able to make about $1,000 a month working from anywhere. That was amazing to me because, with that amount of money, you could live anywhere in Southeast Asia.

Meanwhile, I was running out of money. I returned to my parents' home in Morocco and asked them to borrow €2,000 (about $2,100) to start an e-commerce company. Within a few weeks, I made $10,000 selling phone cases that looked like Gameboys.

I met my business partner, and our company quickly grew

The money was good, but e-commerce wasn't fulfilling to me. I became very interested in cryptocurrencies and asked my networks if anyone knew a crypto expert. That's how I met Tan.

Tan was also running his own successful business at the time. We were both in our mid-20s and spent time exchanging information about business and crypto. Like typical young men, we also partied together. We could vibe personally and professionally, and by the end of the year, we knew we wanted to launch a business.

Our company, Decentralized Masters, came to life in 2022. We teach investors — most of whom have pretty traditional portfolios — about crypto investing. It took off quickly, and last year, we earned more than $13 million in revenue. I'm now a multimillionaire.

Tan and I are opposites, and that's our power

Tan and I have become incredibly close over the past few years. We spend almost all our time together. I think I see him more than his mom does at this point. Our families have become close, too, and I call his mom my second mother. Last year, we took both of our families on a holiday to Japan.

Life is mystical sometimes, and meeting Tan felt that way. Our business has been so successful because we're opposites. Anything I'm lacking, he has plenty of, and vice versa. Our employees call us Yin and Yang. I'm creative, whereas Tan is the epitome of structure. He has an uncanny ability to make order out of chaos.

Tan and I plan to work together long-term

When you achieve financial success like ours at such a young age, it can be difficult to stay connected to reality. Sometimes, you forget you're living a really special life.

Tan and I live in the same apartment building in Dubai, in units with the same layout, just a few floors apart. We didn't plan for that — it just happened.

We have about 10 people who help us optimize our lives. That includes executive assistants, chefs, personal trainers, and stretching coaches. We try to make sure that every aspect of our day is optimized in all aspects.

We even plan our fun. At the beginning of the year, we list the places we want to go and the experiences we want to have. We travel together frequently, whether it's to the US to meet other people in crypto or to the island of Mykonos for some sun. We make sure to have time in our schedule to date, because we don't want any aspect of our lives to be neglected. This year, we're also planning to attend more spiritual retreats.

Tan and I are business partners, and hope to be for life. We're intentional about living at a pace that we'll be able to sustain for the next 40 to 60 years.

• My sister is much more low-key than I am, and for her 50th birthday, I wanted to pamper her.
• I planned a trip for her and two of our mutual friends to Las Vegas, and we had an amazing time.
• We packed so much into just two days, including indulgent meals and time at a spa.

In my family, I'm known as the one who knows how to really have fun and indulge in luxury when I travel. And this is especially true when it comes to birthdays: If I didn't see my name written on a plate in chocolate in some fabulous hotel, did I even have a birthday?

For her part, my sister is far less inclined to frivolities. But, as her 50th birthday drew closer on the calendar, I simply couldn't stand to let it go unacknowledged without the kind of blowout I'd want — indeed, expect! — for myself. So, I took over the planning and did it my way.

We went to Las Vegas and had a jam-packed trip

I gathered our group, including two of our mutual close girlfriends, for a girls' trip to Las Vegas — my favorite city for a party, hands down.

We four ladies all shacked up in a hotel room in the new Versailles Tower at Paris Las Vegas, where we had a high-floor balcony — a Strip rarity — with a knockout view directly over the Bellagio fountain. The famous fountain show, with its musical accompaniment, served as the appropriately festive backdrop while we primped and got ready to go out each evening.

Yes, of course, I brought along a "50 and fabulous" sash and tiara for my sister to wear on the Strip — a very not-her but totally-me demand for public attention for a milestone life moment that triggered tons of cheerful birthday wishes from passersby. (And it paired great with the matching heart-shaped sunglasses another friend brought for all of us to wear.)

First up, we headed to Lisa Vanderpump's new lounge, Pinky's — a gorgeous, gilded venue all about feminine energy and fun, with signature pink cocktails and dishes presented in opulent birdcages or frothing with dry ice.

From there, we hit the Dolby Live Theater with great seats for Mariah Carey's residency concert. It was the '90s nostalgic singalong that was perfectly on-theme for a 50th birthday bash and just what our group needed to get loose and grooving.

The following day, we started with mimosas and Dominick Ansel's famous (and famously rich) cronut pastries over brunch at Marché, setting the tone for a day entirely filled with bubbles until late at night.

Next, it was off to the spa — to me, this is an essential element of any girls' trip. We spent hours lounging in robes at Caesars' Palace's Qua Baths, an ancient Rome-inspired labyrinth of decadent pools and therapeutic spaces. Throughout, there were groups of women of all ages, chatting and laughing for more of a celebratory than a subdued atmosphere, and it was the perfect vibe.

That night, we hit the town again, first for an indulgent dinner at Bobby Flay's seafood restaurant Amalfi. There, we chose our fresh fish right off the ice in a market-style setup.

Afterward, we played blackjack over laughter and drinks in the casino before heading to a new nightspot dedicated entirely to caviar and live rock-and-roll music — Caspian's Rock and Roe — because nothing says "I'm 50 and worth it" like some fancy caviar on ice with a side of champers.

Being celebrated — and celebrating someone else — can be so joyful

In just two days, we packed in so much laughter, pampering, partying, and fun. It was enough to fuel us all through months of routine drudgery that necessarily comes with adulting and parenting.

Overall, the trip was a whopping success and the highlight of the year — for both my sister and me. I like to think I showed my big sister that a little strategic indulgence can really ease the existential dread that invariably comes with a major birthday.

And beyond that, I know I showed her how good it feels not just to wear the birthday tiara and celebrate with epic pampering and partying — but to know there's someone who loves you enough to make it all happen in your honor, even if you don't think you really need all the fuss.

• I met Joyce four years ago, when she was 80 and I was 25.
• We've become incredibly close, and our age difference is a positive in our relationship.
• We love hearing each other's perspectives and giving each other advice.

I had always been close with both of my grandmothers, maternal and paternal. However, during my sophomore year of college, my paternal grandmother stopped knowing who I was. Alzheimer's had taken hold, and though she's still alive, I've had to grieve what our relationship used to be. Not too much time later, just after I graduated from college, my maternal grandmother died suddenly, leaving me reeling from a different kind of grief, one that arrived without warning.

In the midst of feeling untethered after graduating, I decided to move in with my grandfather. We were both navigating uncharted territory: he was adjusting to life without the partner he'd had since he was 19, and I was stepping into the uncertainty of postgrad life, searching for direction in a career I had yet to define.

It was during this time that I met Joyce, and we became fast friends. Daily phone calls, gossip about the men in our lives, and a shared love for food and cooking quickly bonded us. Every Saturday, we met for dinner at the same restaurant, at the same table, a ritual as comforting as it was consistent. On the surface, it seemed like any ordinary friendship. But Joyce wasn't just a friend; she was my grandmother's closest friend. When our relationship began, she was 80, and I was 25.

Our age gap is a positive in our friendship

I no longer had my grandmothers in my life the way I wished I did, but, in Joyce, I found the wisdom of someone who has lived decades longer than me. She's taught me to care less about what others think while simultaneously teaching me about traditional Southern culture and home decor, and because she used to work in the wedding stationery industry, she's given me a wealth of knowledge about paper goods and etiquette.

I love hearing about what's trending in her world, from table-setting Facebook groups to the brand Johnny Was; I already love dissecting the trends of my age group, but I find it much more fascinating to learn about hers. I'm also so interested to hear her thoughts on my generation.

She has never made me feel inferior due to my age. But she's also taught me lessons only someone married for 60 years could know the answers to. When I first started dating my now-fiancé, I thought I was in love, but how does one really know? Of course, there's the excitement and the rush, but what constitutes a soul mate?

One afternoon, I couldn't shake the question. I needed to know the answer and if he was really "the one." I called Joyce and asked her. After all, she had been married for decades; she ought to know.

"It feels like there's never enough time in the day when you're with them, even when you're together for 24 hours," she said, and from then on, that sentence has stuck with me.

When I moved in with my fiancé, she gave me a folder of her favorite recipes, printed, annotated, and filled with her personal notes on how to make them better. To this day, it remains one of the most thoughtful gifts I've ever received.

We learn from each other

Intergenerational friendships have a way of teaching you about yourself. There's a unique kind of introspection that happens when you hear about someone else's upbringing, the experiences that shaped them, and how they've handled life's challenges. Joyce grew up in the South during the depths of segregation; she has a photo with Elvis Presley, her home ec classes fascinate me, and she married at 21. Her life, when she was my age, was drastically different, and yet, we've found this very special common ground in our connection.

One day, I asked Joyce if she thought I'd taught her anything. I wasn't expecting much, but instead, she immediately said, "Chloe. You're smart."

I laughed, assuming she was kidding, but she shook her head. "You've taught me a great deal about how to deal with people."

When I asked her what that meant, she mentioned me moving in with my grandfather. "You do things out of love for your family. People should be more like you, look around them, and see what's important. It's family."

Our friendship, unconventional as it may seem, has been one of the most impacting relationships. She's so much a part of my life that I've asked her to sign my ketubah at my wedding, a moment that will symbolize just how much she means to me.

Joyce has shown me that love and companionship don't have to fit neatly into boxes. Or be just between peers. Sometimes, they come in the form of an 84-year-old woman who gossips with you at dinner, who gifts you recipes to build a home, and who reminds you, with simple but profound words, that friendship can feel like family.

• Philip Townsend, 80, is from the Gold Coast of Australia and has a lifelong group of friends.
• He recently reconnected with those friends for his birthday.
• They reminisced about their friendships, and he says their connections have enriched his life.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Philip Townsend, an 80-year-old from the Gold Coast, Australia. It has been edited for length and clarity.

When I was in my 20s, I made a group of friends while living overseas. They proved to be lifelong mates, and the memories we share mean so much to me.

I grew up in Tasmania, Australia, and at 21, I boarded a ship called the P&O Oriana alone, headed for Canada. That was the start of an amazing adventure.

On the ship, I met a guy named Kevin. He was two years older than me and really amiable. He was a gentle giant, and I found him easy to talk to. We'd go down to the lounge area and have drinks until 3 a.m.

Martin, who also became one of my best friends, was traveling on the ship, too. He was a rogue and spent most of the journey playing cards with the crew.

As the ship pulled into Vancouver, snow covered the mountains, and I was so excited to be there. Martin and I were drinking together on deck chairs, and we ended up getting off the ship together.

We ended up living together

We found a temporary place to stay in a hotel near the wharf, then ended up getting an apartment in a five-story high-rise in the west end. We didn't particularly like the place, but it was a roof over our heads.

One night, we went to a houseboat party, and I met a guy who said he was moving out of a property on Prospect Drive in North Vancouver. It proved to be one of those serendipitous moments in life. I proposed the idea to Martin, and he said, "Let's do it." Kevin ended up moving in with us, too.

It was a double-story weatherboard house on a nine-acre property with a little creek running through it. You'd go over the bridge and then up to the pool house. There was a swimming pool with diving boards and a tennis court. That's where we had all the parties. It was a great setup.

Soon after, I got a job with a car dealership, and one night, this guy walked in. He had an Australian accent and sideburns and was a colorful character. His name was David. He said he'd arrived a few months earlier, so I invited him to a party in North Vancouver, and he fell in love with the place. He moved in immediately.

That's how Martin, Kevin, David, and I met and started living together. It was the happiest time of my life. I was young, free, and felt bulletproof.

Our group started traveling together, and the adventures continued

In 1970, after three years in Canada, we headed to South America on the adventure of a lifetime. Kevin didn't go, but Martin, David, me, and another Canadian we knew spent almost a year traveling together in a van.

After South America, we all went back to Canada for a while and then moved on to Europe. Dave and I bought an Austin A60 and called it "The Black Beast," and we road-tripped around Europe with Kevin and another Australian.

At Oktoberfest, another traveler invited us to Calpe (now Calp) — a small fishing village on Spain's Mediterranean coast. It was a magical time of parties and picnics, day trips to nearby towns, and wine-tasting excursions to local vineyards. While there, I met my future wife.

On the day we were leaving Calpe, one of our American buddies took a photo of Kevin, myself, and David. More than five decades later, we recreated that photo on my 80th birthday.

After the European adventure, Kevin and David headed back to Australia, while I went to London and eventually followed the young woman I'd met in Calpe to what is now called Zimbabwe, where she was from.

As life continued we saw each other less, but we remained close

After we were married and had children, I didn't see my mates from Canada for some years. Once you have a family, things change. We all settled in different parts of Australia, which also makes it hard.

The first major get-together of the Prospect Drive group was in 2004. I flew to Canada, and we skied, enjoyed après skis, and chewed the fat. In 2018, Martin was unwell, and David, Kevin and I flew to Busselton in Western Australia for a week to lift his spirits.

Then, for my 80th birthday in January 2025, Kevin, David, and Martin all flew to the Gold Coast to celebrate with me. I felt really humbled to have them there. There was a lot of reminiscing, and it was always the same old yarns, but we never seemed to get sick of it because it was a revival of a time that meant a lot to us.

Having lifelong friendships has absolutely enriched my life. There's a deep connection to the past and so many shared memories. Those mates are more than just friends — they're family.