I was going to write tonight about my time in the desert. Overland Park, Kansas, to be exact. But I’ll leave that for another day.

Because I had a conversation today that made me think about something else entirely. What friendship is supposed to look like. What beloved community actually is. And more importantly, how we intentionally build it. Or destroy it.

I heard someone on a podcast say you can tell how much a person loves themselves by the partner they choose.

I felt personally attacked. Because it was kind of accurate.

And I think this applies to friendships too.

Because let’s be honest. Would you voluntarily surround yourself with people who constantly make you feel like you’re the problem? Who subtly, or not-so-subtly, remind you of your flaws? Who project their unresolved chaos onto you like you’re an emotional support stuffy from IKEA?

And yet… many of us do.

I don’t. Or at least, I try not to. I’ve spent enough of my life fighting to exist as myself to know I cannot build intimacy with people who are hiding. Who are sneaking. Who are not honest about who they are.

But romantic relationships? I have chosen differently from my friendships.

Sometimes I tolerated relationships that slowly eroded me because they were familiar. Because they loved me. Because it was easy in the beginning, until it wasn’t. Because we confuse history with safety.

Because of the sunk cost fallacy of the heart.

Or because we don’t fully love ourselves yet, and we accept the version of ourselves reflected back to us as truth.

There’s a sociological theory called the Looking-Glass Self, coined by Charles Cooley. It says we form our identity based on how we believe others see us.

Which explains a lot.

I grew up a lesbian in the 90s. Before rainbow logos became corporate branding strategies. Before Pride had sponsors and merch tents. I’ve had strangers publicly call me disgusting. Immoral. Broken. I remember lying awake at night wondering if they were right. Wondering if there was something fundamentally wrong with me.

Which is disorienting when all you were trying to do is exist and help people see each other’s humanity. Through the work I chose. Through advocating for equal marriage. For speaking up for immigrant communities. For creating policies to stop bullying kids because they were different.

Apparently, that made me a radical snowflake sinner.

But when enough people tell you you’re the problem, it doesn’t just stay in your head. It settles into your nervous system.

Therapy helps. Time helps. Developing a strong sense of self helps, even if other people misinterpret it as ego or narcissism. Because sometimes confidence is just what survival looks like after years of being told you shouldn’t exist.

And that’s where relationships get complicated.

Because conflict between people is rarely about the surface issue. It’s about identity. About whether we feel seen as good, worthy, and valued. Or reduced to our worst moments.

When someone we love says something that hurts us, the instinct isn’t always curiosity.

It’s defense. Retaliation. Emotional scorched earth.

Not because we want to destroy them (some may be actually trying to destroy you).

Because most of the time we’re trying to protect ourselves.

It’s the difference between saying,

“What you said hurt me. Can we talk about it?”

And saying,

“Oh yeah? Here’s a comprehensive list of everything you’ve done wrong since 2020.”

Which, admittedly, is tempting.

But beloved community doesn’t survive on scorekeeping.

It survives on repair.

On witness. On understanding.

On choosing people who can hold your complexity without turning it into ammunition. On being brave enough to hold theirs too. On having hard conversations instead of quietly drifting into resentment while still liking each other’s Instagram posts like everything is fine.

Because here’s the truth I’ve learned the hard way:

Some people love you, but they don’t actually like you.

Some people like you, but they don’t know how to love you.

And some rare people do both.

Those are the ones who stay. Hold on to those people.

Lent asks us to examine not just our individual hearts, but the communities we are building around us.

Who reflects your worth back to you?

Who distorts it?

Who makes you feel more like yourself after you leave, instead of less?

Beloved community isn’t accidental.

It’s chosen.

Over and over again.

Sometimes awkwardly. Sometimes imperfectly. Sometimes after uncomfortable conversations and mutual humility and maybe over a meal, because everyone is emotionally fragile and hungry.

Like all relationships, romantic or platonic, you want to surround yourself with people who help you become a better version of yourself. People who see the good in you and don’t keep score of your worst moments, but witness your effort. People who choose to grow alongside you instead of standing still and resenting your movement.

That is how we build holy, beloved community.

As above, so below.

Lenten Reflection:

“Two are better than one… If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.” – Ecclesiastes 4:9–10

Scripture doesn’t pretend we are self-sufficient. It assumes we will fall. The only question is who will be there when we do.

Because falling is inevitable. Illness. Grief. Breakups. Losing yourself. Reinventing yourself. The long middle where you don’t recognize who you are yet and neither does anyone else.

Beloved community isn’t the people who only knew you when you were strong.

It’s the people who stayed when you were disoriented.

When you were quiet.

When you had nothing impressive to offer.

And it’s also the people who let you show up for them when it was their turn to fall.

Not fixing.

Not rescuing.

Just refusing to disappear on each other.

Jesus didn’t build community around perfection. He built it around proximity. Around people who misunderstood him. People who doubted him. People who failed him. And still, he kept choosing connection.

Because beloved community isn’t proven by how people treat you when you’re thriving.

It’s revealed by who remains when you’re not.

Take care of yourself.

Take care of each other.

#lentreflections2026 #fishfryfriday