The Intimacy We Don't Talk About Enough

To the women I love, who weather the April storms - you are my May flowers.

Authors Note: This one’s a little longer than usual. But so are the nights my friends have stayed on the phone with me, the car rides in silence, the conversations that loop and linger until the ache settles. I thought about editing it down. Making it tighter, shorter, more polished. But that didn’t feel honest. This letter is full - just like the love that inspired it.

It’s 2 A.M. and my heart is in pieces. I’m curled up on the sofa, phone in hand, fighting back tears over another love lost. I don’t text the man who hurt me - I call one of you instead. The next morning you are waiting for me at the train station, you don’t say a word as you drive beside me, letting me crash out, letting me cry, letting me sit in silence. In that moment, your presence is a warmth no romance has ever given me.

We live in a culture fixated on romantic love, the idea that our deepest fulfillment comes from finding the one. But some of my most profound love stories don’t involve romance at all. They unfold in late-night talks on my green couch and laughs over inside jokes. This is the love no romance novel could have ever prepared me for. This is my love letter to you, a celebration of the unspoken intimacy we share.

From the outside, our bond might look ordinary: group chats full of Friday night plans and conversations about the roster, the occasional “girl bossing too hard let’s run away” and girls’ nights in. But beneath that we’ve created a sanctuary where I can be every version of myself without fear. When I succeed, you cheer the loudest; when I’m broken, you still show up, gently making space for my pain. You hold space for every me, the yapper me, the anxious me, the grieving me. In a world that often asks women to shrink or perform, with you I can expand freely or collapse fully, and I am enough either way.

I think of the times I’ve shown you my messiest self and never once have you turned away. Not when I confessed mistakes I’m ashamed of, not when I agonized over the same heartbreak for the fifth time. Instead, you listen without judgment, offering understanding and the occasional tough love. You might murmur “Are you showing up as your most intentional self?” as I talk about doing something I have no business in doing, or say “Enough is enough” to jolt me out of a depression pit. Your unconditional acceptance has been a lifeline. Through your eyes I’ve learned to forgive myself.

There is healing power in your presence. One evening I fell into the avoidant cycle when things got overwhelming and you appeared at my door with my favorite flowers in hand. We sat quietly and watched housewives until my laughter returned. How many times have we saved each other this way, with mundane magic? A hand to hold when I’m panicking, an errand run when I can’t face the world, dozens of little gestures that say the same thing: I’m here. You’re not alone.

And the humor, even the pettiness, we share in the name of love. When ‘he who shall not be named’ broke my heart, you were there with tissues and fury. “Do we need to slash his tires or sign him up for endless spam calls?” you joked, making me crack a smile through the tears. Being willing to plot playful revenge just to lift my spirits, that’s friendship. We never followed through on those wild plans. Instead, you gave me what I needed: a shoulder to cry on, and a partner in pain who gently steered me back to myself. With you, the urge for revenge fizzles; my heart heals not through retaliation but through your existence, your loyalty.

Being friends with you has taught me that intimacy wears many faces. It’s in the way we finish each other’s sentences one minute and sit in silence together the next. It’s in the dance parties to Kaytranada and the prayers whispered over the phone when one of us is in despair. These moments have stitched our lives together, giving me a sense of belonging deeper than any romantic overture.

The greatest gift of this sisterhood is how it has reshaped my sense of wholeness.

There’s a particular kind of intimacy that lives in female friendships, subtle, slow-growing, and profoundly unspoken. It builds in fragments. It’s the art of being known in your smallest details, your hesitations, your humor, your hiding places and still being met with warmth, not correction.

This is not the supporting role to some greater love story. It is my most fulfilling love story. Rooted. Replenishing. Real.

These are the women who’ve seen me through every season, who’ve held space when I couldn’t hold myself together. They’ve listened to the same story (told five different ways, across three different moods) without once making me feel like a burden. They are the ones who call just to check if I’ve eaten.

They’ve learned the texture of my silence, the difference between “I’m fine” and I’m unraveling. The ones who remind me that ambition is worthy, but stillness is sacred. The ones who love me not for what I produce or solve or become but simply because I exist. They’re not placeholders for romantic love. They are the reason I no longer confuse intensity for intimacy.

The reason I question whether I was ever yearning for men, or just for someone to truly see me.

Because they do. They always have.

They’ve seen me soft. Seen me sharp. Seen me tired of trying. And still, they’ve chosen me again and again. Without needing a prompt. Without needing me to be better, calmer, more digestible.

They are the ones who stand with me in the rain, and somehow remind me that May always comes. To the women I love, thank you for staying. For knowing. For making the quiet places feel full again. You are my May flowers. And I will never stop growing toward you. You are a mirror reflecting my best self and a light chasing away my darkest doubts.

For every woman who’s ever held space without needing a thank you - this is mine.

Always,

Leslie

Your turn: Who are the women in your life who have seen you, not just supported you, but truly seen you and how have they shaped the way you understand love?

Feel free to sit with it, journal on it or send this letter to someone who’s held space for you in that quiet, sacred way.