I had been sitting with a close friend of mine on our university campus in an outside patio, feeling confident and indignant despite being unprovoked. In a few short minutes, it would be the first time that Madeline (my soon-to-be roommate) and I could spend time together discussing our expectations for the year ahead. I had been carefully preparing, debating how I might best present myself with an aura that could effectively intimidate Madeline. I had just spent a year living with women who seemed to have a knack for preying on the weaknesses of others, and used them to manipulate and bully. Righteously angry and unwilling to compromise, I hoped to show Madeline that intimidating me was impossible, and I was uninterested in the façade of pleasantries.
When Madeline arrived at our table, she was exactly the girl I expected, and the complete opposite of me: bubbly, exuberant, and sweet. We walked together to a popular coffee shop just outside the borders of campus, and her demeanor quickly changed in response to my deliberately hostile tone. As we chatted over coffee and tea about our past and how we hoped to see our future, it became increasingly clear that the year ahead might prove difficult. She was relaxed about her expectations for a roommate, while I had clear and distinct boundaries I demanded her to follow. The contrast between our styles, beliefs, and attitude was stark: we were polar opposites. She left our conversation apprehensive of a friendship with me, and I left knowing that I had accomplished my goal.
However, as time wore on, our relationship began to shift. It was about a month into living together, and Madeline was the last one home. The anniversary of my mother’s passing, September 27, was nearly over. I was sprawled on the couch, tissues crumpled on the floor and my laptop open to a photo album entitled “Mom and I.” All day had been a transition from the bed to the couch and back again. My face was tear-soaked and swollen, and I was having difficulty focusing on anything in front of me. Outside our apartment I could hear Madeline struggling to fit her keys into the lock, and the crash of heavy bags falling to the floor as she worked to open the door. Swinging our front door open, she shouted “Fall Haul!” and bounced over to me on the couch. She embodied everything I wasn’t in that moment, and perfectly provided the light to my darkness, the energy to my lethargy. Out of her bags, she began to describe each item one by one, all pumpkin-flavored, and all for me. First the pumpkin eggnog, then the pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin pop-tarts, pumpkin yogurt…a seemingly endless array of treats that reminded me both of the things I love, and how loved I am.
Madeline’s gesture softened me, and I sobbed violently into her arms. She allowed me the space to cry when I needed to cry, and she brought me joy on a day that might otherwise prove to be the worst of my year. Although uncomfortably new at first, it was our differences that allowed her to see past my walls and care for me in ways that others hadn’t. It is our differences that have allowed us to engage in debates and share our viewpoints with one another in the hopes of learning something new. And it is our differences that create a constant and beautiful tension between the known and the unknown, the familiar and the unfamiliar. Our friendship is dynamic, continuously shifting into territories I haven’t explored in other relationships, and I’m both excited and honored to walk through life with someone like Madeline.