Smoked Meats, Sweaty Hugs, and Chosen Chaos

Fifteen-ish years ago, we were broke and idealistic, bonded by a year of service as AmeriCorps VISTAs. We were barely scraping by, living on stipends, heart, and $2 Tuesdays at the local pub.

That first Friendsgiving? A one-bedroom apartment. A “touch” football game that left bruises. A turkey bought with my LINK card. It was chaotic, beautiful, and completely ours.

Now? We still do Friendsgiving every fall, rotating between homes and now with our partners, kids, and years of layered love and laughter. Four couples. Eight adults. Six kids. One chosen family.

We’ve been through a lot together—breakups, weddings, births, pet drama, pregnancy, parenting, promotions, home ownership, grief, international adventures, and career pivots. We’ve shared tissues and tequila. Couches and campers. Joy and heartbreak.

We’ve packed into cars, trains, and planes, played ridiculous party games with no real rules, and loaded up on snacks and booze like we were stocking a bunker. 

We’ve survived hockey games, Costco runs, tournaments, wine walks, and, yes, even COVID—thanks to our very own logistical goddess Brenna, who orchestrated synchronized grocery deliveries so we could toast virtually, together-apart.

And oh, the other characters.

Lisa, steady and serene in the middle of a city that never stops.

Tiff, our matriarch—the glitter glue of the group.

Eric, the suburban dad who BBQs like a pro, keeps us all in check, and the kitchen clean.

Michael, our giant-hearted hugger with an even bigger wingspan.

Ellen, the Southern belle who’s sweet as peach pie but tells it like it is.

Brandon and me? We’re the country bumpkins who can’t hold still. The ones who planned a cozy wedding that basically said, “We’d host this in our living room if everyone could fit.”

When we’re together, we don’t need much. We talk. We dance. We cook and overeat. Occasionally, Tiff and Michael treat us to their dramatic (and surprisingly well-rehearsed?) rendition of Les Misérables. And yes, we debate—loudly—over when it’s socially acceptable to start playing Christmas music. (For the record, I’m firmly Team November.)

We’ve celebrated New Year’s Eve with party hats and Halloween in capes. We’ve eaten pie with our bare hands and struggle bussed through the worst hangovers known to man. 

We've spoken at weddings, been by hospital beds, and sat on playground swings. 

We’ve done brunches and bonfires, birthdays and beach days. We’ve driven through blizzards and danced in dust storms. We've argued, forgiven, laughed until our abs hurt, and showed up, again and again.

The wildest part? At the time, I didn’t know these were the big moments. We weren’t posting for Instagram. We were just…living. In sweatpants. With no makeup. And hearts wide open.

This is what friendship looks like when it’s built on kindness, consistency, and true, radical intention. It’s chaotic. It's sacred. It’s real.

When you find your people, you build a life with them—one messy, magical memory at a time. The only question is—where are we headed next?