Latest / The Friendship Project: Women, Friendship & Modern Life / When Pronouns Feel Unfamiliar: Loving a Friend Through Transition | The Friendship Project
Transcript
- I stared at the screen for ten minutes, thumb hovering over the delete button, convinced that asking for help was a sign I was failing her. But before you judge me, let’s sit with that for a second. There is a specific kind of panic that sets in when someone you love changes the way they are named. It isn’t just about words; it’s about the fear that you will break something fragile by trying to hold it right. I remember sitting on my kitchen floor last winter, the silence of the house pressing against my ears, feeling like an imposter in my own life. My best friend, Sarah, had begun her transition six months prior. We had been friends since we were twenty-two, sharing apartments, heartbreaks, and the messy, beautiful chaos of our twenties. She was still Sarah in every way that mattered to my heart, but the world around us—and the language we used—had shifted into new territory. And I? I was stumbling. I wasn’t malicious. I wasn’t hateful. I was just terrified of getting it wrong. Terrified that if I used the wrong pronoun, or hesitated too long, or slipped up in front of others, I would be seen as one of those people. The ones who claim to love but can’t adapt. So I did what many of us do when we are afraid. I withdrew. I stopped initiating plans. I read fewer texts. I told myself it was because I was busy, or tired, or overwhelmed with work. But the truth, the raw, ugly truth, was that I was waiting for the uncertainty to pass so I could feel safe again. And in doing that, I left her alone in the very moment she needed me most. Let’s talk about why this happens. Why does something as simple as a pronoun feel like walking through a minefield? It’s not because we don’t care. It’s because language is the scaffolding of our reality. When that scaffolding shifts, even slightly, our brains register it as instability. We worry that if we change how we speak about someone, we are changing who they are to us. Or worse, we worry that we are erasing the person we knew. I felt that tension daily. Every time I saw her name in a group chat, my stomach would tighten. Was it ‘he’ now? Was it ‘they’? Had he updated his profile? Did I need to check again? The mental load of constant vigilance is exhausting. And here is the part nobody talks about: it is also lonely for us. The women listening to this right now, who have friends transitioning, often carry a secret shame. We feel guilty for being confused. We feel guilty for needing time. We think that love should be automatic, instantaneous, perfect. But love is not a reflex; it is a practice. And practices take repetition. They take mistakes. They take the courage to say, 'I messed up,' without expecting punishment. I didn’t understand this then. I thought that if I loved her enough, my mouth would just know what to do. But love doesn’t override confusion. Humility does. Curiosity does. The willingness to be a beginner again, even if you’ve known someone for decades. Eventually, the distance became too wide to ignore. We ran into each other at a coffee shop, and I saw it in her eyes—the hurt, the fatigue, the quiet resignation that I wasn’t trying. I didn’t make excuses. I didn’t blame stress. I just looked at her and said, 'I’m struggling with the language. I’m scared of hurting you, so I’ve been pulling away. That’s on me, and I am sorry.' It was the hardest sentence I had ever spoken. It felt like dropping a shield. I expected her to be angry. I expected her to tell me I didn’t deserve her friendship. Instead, she sighed. A long, heavy exhale that seemed to release years of carrying the burden of educating me alone. She said, 'It’s okay to be awkward, Kari. Just don’t leave me.' In that moment, the dynamic shifted. We moved from secrecy to partnership. I realized that my silence wasn’t protecting her; it was abandoning her. By hiding my discomfort, I was denying her the chance to guide me. I was treating her transition like a problem to be solved in isolation rather than a shared journey. Once I admitted I didn’t know, she could teach me. And she did. With patience, with grace, and yes, sometimes with frustration. But she stayed. And I stayed. Because staying is the point. Not perfection. Staying. So, how do we move from fear to fluency? If you are listening to this and your chest is tight, knowing you have a friend in this space, here is what helped me. First, normalize the correction. When I slip up—and I will, I promise you—I ask my friend to correct me. Not gently, not apologetically, but directly. 'Hey, that was she/her.' I nod. I say, 'Thank you.' And I move on. No drama. No defensiveness. No making it about my guilt. Second, update your internal database. Go back to old photos. Look at them with fresh eyes. See the person they are now, not the person you remember. It sounds small, but it retrains your brain to see the continuity of their soul, not just the change in their presentation. Third, educate yourself privately. Don’t put the emotional labor of research on your friend. Read articles. Listen to podcasts. Learn the history of gender transition. When you come to the conversation already informed, you show respect. You show that you value their truth enough to do the homework. And finally, forgive yourself for the stumbles. You will mess up. Everyone does. The key is not never failing; it is always repairing. Apologize briefly. Correct course. Keep showing up. Your consistency matters more than your precision. What is this friendship asking of you? It is asking you to expand. To grow beyond the comfort zone of familiarity. Growth is rarely comfortable. It feels like stretching a muscle you forgot you had. There will be days you feel frustrated. Days you wish things were simpler. Days you miss the ease of the past. Acknowledge those feelings. They are valid. But do not let them dictate your actions. Let them be data, not directives. Ask yourself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to be connected? Do I want to protect my ego, or do I want to honor my friend’s identity? The answer usually guides you home. I learned that true intimacy requires vulnerability on both sides. My friend was vulnerable in sharing her truth. I was vulnerable in admitting my fear. Together, we built a bridge over the gap. It wasn’t pretty. It was awkward and messy and full of missteps. But it was real. And in a world that often demands we perform certainty, there is profound healing in allowing ourselves to be uncertain together. You are not alone in this struggle. Many of us are learning, adjusting, and loving in ways we never imagined possible. Reach out. Ask questions. Make peace with the fact that you don’t have all the answers yet. Looking back, I realize that navigating this transition didn’t weaken our bond; it deepened it. It stripped away the superficial layers of our friendship and forced us to confront the core: Who are we to each other when the labels change? The answer was, still everything. Sarah is still my confidante, my humor, my anchor. The pronouns changed, but the presence remained. And in honoring that presence, I found a stronger version of myself. One that is more compassionate, more curious, less afraid of looking foolish. I learned that love is not a static state. It is an active verb. It requires maintenance. It requires repair. It requires us to keep learning the people we claim to cherish. If you are in this season of adjustment, breathe. Give yourself grace. Keep talking. Keep trying. The bridge you are building might be shaky at first, but it is sturdy enough for two people who choose each other, again and again. And that choice, more than any word, is what holds us together. You are doing better than you think. Take a breath. Be gentle with yourself. I’ll be here next week. Until then, keep choosing connection.