January 2025 – Tejas Rao

There’s something about planning to meet your best friend that makes you realize how much has changed, and simultaneously, how little has changed. Today, while figuring out when to meet my best friend and his fiancée who are in town, I found myself naturally suggesting that we meet first as just the three of us, and then later with our parents. It wasn’t a calculated thought – it just felt right. Because while we’re very much adults now, making our own plans and living our own lives, there’s this wonderful thing that happens when we’re all together with our parents: we get to choose to be kids again. Not because we have to, but because we want to. Because there’s joy in watching our parents beam at our achievements while still fussing over whether we’re eating enough.

When he mentioned that it would have been nice to meet multiple times but we know that both of our schedules are tight, I found myself nodding with a smile. Five years ago, that comment from any one of my friends might have sparked anxiety in me, a fear that friendships could slip away in the spaces between meetings. But today, it felt natural. Our friendship has weathered enough time and distance to know that it doesn’t depend on frequency of meetings. It depends on something much more fundamental – the knowledge that we’re there for each other, growing alongside each other, even when we’re apart.

I’ve been watching my friends step into new chapters lately. Ones becoming twos, twos becoming threes. There’s something profoundly beautiful about seeing friends embrace roles I’ve only known from the outside – partners, parents, different kinds of professionals than they started as. I love how they navigate these new waters, sometimes turning to other friends who understand these experiences better than I can. A friend who just became a parent might need advice I can’t give, but I can still be there – maybe not with solutions, but with presence, with support, with a willingness to learn about this new dimension of their life. I’ve also learned that quite frequently, people aren’t looking for solutions, just a pair of ears and a warm smile.

They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I’m starting to see how that wisdom extends to all of life’s big changes. We’re all part of each other’s support systems, showing up how we can, when we can. Sometimes that means late-night calls about career decisions, sometimes it means holding a friend’s baby while they grab a shower, sometimes it’s just sending a message saying “I saw this and thought of you.”

What’s beautiful is watching our circles expand. Every wedding I attend, every baby I meet, every partner who joins our group – they’re not dividing the existing love and attention, they’re adding their own layers to it. Our friendships aren’t getting diluted; they’re getting richer, more complex, more interesting. I’m loving how friendship evolves. How it finds new rhythms, new patterns, new ways of showing up. How some friends who I used to meet every day are now people I see twice a year but pick up exactly where we left off. How others who were once acquaintances have become central parts of my life. How we all flow in and out of each other’s important moments, creating this intricate web of care and connection.

When I see my best friend soon, I know we’ll talk about his upcoming wedding, about work, about life. We’ll share space with his fiancée, who brings her own warmth to our friendship. And later, when we’re all sitting with our parents, we’ll probably fall into old patterns – sharing glances over inside jokes, getting gently teased about childhood mishaps, being reminded to eat more. Not because we haven’t grown up, but because we have – enough to know that growing up doesn’t mean leaving behind the joy of sometimes being someone’s child.

That’s the gift of these evolving friendships – they give us space to be everything we are, everything we’re becoming, and everything we’ve been, all at once.

Shall we dance, my friends?

Shall we play that agonizing game of waiting to take to the dance floor when the music is playing in the background? Shall we pretend we don’t hear the melody calling us, even as our feet begin to tap unconsciously against the floor? Shall we feign indifference to the rhythm that’s been there all along – that persistent beat of words waiting to spill onto the page?

Seven months is a long time to stand at the edge of the dance floor. Seven months of the music playing, of thoughts collecting like dust in the corners of my mind, of stories waiting to be told. But here we are again, you and I, circling each other in this familiar space.

You might expect a New Year’s resolution at this point. A grand declaration of “I will write more” or “I will post every week” – the kind of precise choreography we convince ourselves we need. But I’ve been thinking about something different: guiding principles rather than rigid resolutions. It’s like choosing to learn the fundamentals of movement rather than memorizing specific dance steps. These principles aren’t waiting for the clock to strike midnight or for a new calendar to hang on the wall – they’re about approaching each day with intention, about recognizing that growth and change don’t adhere to our arbitrary timelines.

This is, admittedly, a grand experiment I’m conducting with myself. The hypothesis is simple: that principles which guide us daily will serve us better than resolutions that often feel like deadlines looming in the distance. That instead of waiting for the perfect moment to change, we acknowledge that change is a constant dance we’re already engaged in.

I’ve noticed something fascinating about writing – it’s less like a skill you master once and more like a muscle that needs constant exercise. In the months when I’m regularly putting words to page, something magical happens. It’s not just the blog posts that flow more easily; every form of written communication becomes more fluid, more precise. My emails carry a certain rhythm, my text messages find their own poetic tempo. Even my thoughts seem to arrange themselves more coherently, as if the very act of regular writing tunes the orchestra of my mind. This year, as part of my guiding principles, I want to honor this connection. To acknowledge that each word written, whether in a lengthy blog post or a quick message, is part of the same dance – each step making the next one more natural, more graceful.

There’s a certain vulnerability in returning to this space after so long. It’s like stepping onto a brightly lit stage after months in the wings, squinting slightly at the familiar-yet-foreign feeling of exposure. But perhaps that’s exactly what makes it meaningful. The willingness to be seen, to share the stumbles along with the graceful moves, to invite others into this dance of words and thoughts and half-formed ideas.

So shall we dance this dance of trying to write again? I can’t promise perfect rhythm or flawless steps. I can’t even promise I’ll keep writing – though that’s the hope, the intention, the principle I’m embracing. All I know is that the music is playing, has been playing all along, and I’m finally stepping back onto the floor.

The only way to dance, after all, is to keep dancing. And this time, I’m choosing to hear the music in every word, every message, every thought that finds its way to expression. It’s all part of the same beautiful choreography, this daily practice of putting words into the world.

Month: January 2025

Villages Within Villages

Shall we dance?