Eighth-grade wasn’t my highpoint. Acne seemed my only dependable friend and fashion found me somewhere between a crimper and The Limited Too. But one redeeming end of that year, aside from speckle-rimmed glasses and a hot pink shirt of course, was the oval bottle of perfume I’d received for Christmas. Something about spraying its aroma over my skin put a covering on my awkwardness and made the world seem okay.

Ninth-grade transitioned me to private school, meaning a uniform and Bass Bucks, so far less fashion angst. I also joined the cross-country team, lending something of a fresh confidence and camaraderie. One Friday after practice, we were rinsing-off in the locker room, primping for that night’s football game. When I pulled-out my perfume to release its magic covering, you’d have thought I put a skunk in my teammates nostril.

“That’s the most wretched perfume I’ve ever smelled!”

I was embarrassed, but also felt like something monumental had just happened. Someone had noticed me, and not just any me, but the me undone by my covering. (If I had thought through this much, I probably would’ve realized the response was more about being bratty and rude, but clearly I didn’t, and instead interpreted the comment as a compliment.) As it stood, someone had cared enough to be honest with me, and something about that transaction equated to something of my longing for friendship.

Over the years, my closest friends have become those with whom I feel safe enough to share honestly. Whether about past mistakes, future dreams, or a spontaneous desire to take a nap, they’re the people I can trust with all sides of my story. I can err on sides of rainy, or bright, and know they’re not gonna budge. I can be honest, and expect honesty in return, without fearing a loss of their love. My friend Megen calls this sort “refrigerator friends,” or those we’re comfortable enough with to freely rummage through their refrigerators and retrieve what we want, and vice versa.

It’s hard to admit that I don’t have these friends in my new city. I guess friendships take time though. And I guess I’m choosing to remember that I’m involved in a process—and it’s at work—and my greatest job is just to show-up to its work.

Hard though I may try, I cannot make life happen faster, or grow more fruitfully, than its current pace. True friendship is not a construct; it’s a grace. And learning a new community is not a strategy; it’s an awakening of vulnerability.

So for today, at least, I’ll just gonna try and show-up. And trust that a day is coming when a newfound friend will be rummaging through my refrigerator and turn to tell me that my perfume smells wretched.