I’m a lucky girl. In the immortal words of Phoebe Buffay, “He’s my lobster.” But let me tell you — finding my lobster wasn’t exactly a smooth swim through the dating tank. It was messy, filled with heartbreaks, questionable choices, and more late-night “therapy sessions” with my girlfriends (and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc) than I can count.

There were breakups so dramatic they could have had their own Adele soundtrack. Hello? It’s me, crying into my wine glass while my girlfriends picked up my 2 a.m. calls. These women are my unsung heroes — the ones who never judged me for ugly crying or ordering vodka when Pinot just wasn’t strong enough.

Being a girlfriend to a heartbroken bestie is a delicate dance. On one hand, you want to go nuclear on the guy who made her cry — craft the perfect assassin-level speech and tell him where to shove it. On the other hand, you hold your tongue (and your wine) because maybe — just maybe — he’ll pull his head out of his ass and realize what he’s about to lose.

For me, it was the unwavering love of these women, plus the clarity that comes somewhere between a tear-stained sleeve and a glass of cabernet, that got me through the chaos. And when I finally found my lobster — the one who stayed, who saw all of me and loved me anyway — I knew it had all been worth it.

So here’s to the women who pour the wine, the girlfriends who keep your secrets (and occasionally your dignity), and the love that’s worth every wrong turn, every tear, and every Adele song on repeat. Baby, I love you — and you were worth every sip and stumble along the way.

Writing is hard. Not “ugh, my bangs are uneven” hard, but “I-just-bared-my-soul-and-now-strangers-are-judging-it” hard. Yet, here I am—willingly walking into the fire, laptop in hand, words in my heart.

This past year, I took my writing from the safety of my laptop to the wild world of WFWA (Women’s Fiction Writers Association), where women with big stories and even bigger dreams gather. I went to my first pitch event and, let me tell you, nothing humbles you faster than trying to condense your entire book—your soul!—into 60 seconds. It’s speed dating with people who hold your future in their inboxes.

But here’s the thing I learned: the women I met there? Powerhouses. They weren’t just writers—they were cheerleaders, therapists, and warriors in lipstick. They understood the late-night editing tears, the “does this scene work?” spirals, and the bravery it takes to hit “send.”

For women, writing often feels like rebellion. We’re told to be quiet, to keep it polished, to smile more and bleed less. But at WFWA, I met women who embrace the messy truth of their stories, and who reminded me that even when writing feels humiliating or impossible, we’re not alone.

Sure, I left with bruised pride (and a list of edits longer than my grocery list), but also with a fire in my chest. Because this isn’t just about books—it’s about voice. About daring to be seen.

If you’re lucky, you have that girlfriend. The one who’s been there since the days of ill-advised bangs (and let’s be honest, curtain bangs are a bold gamble). She sat next to you on Thursday nights with a cheap bottle of wine — because Cakebread was not in the budget — dissecting every terrible plot twist and every worse-than-terrible boyfriend.

She’s your ride-or-die. The one who coached you through “he’s just not that into you” long before it was a book title. The one who held your hair back when the night got away from you, and your heart when life got even messier. Maybe you even went years not talking because you were pissed about something you can’t even remember now.

These women aren’t just friends — they’re your chosen family. Your tribe. The people who hype you up, call you out, and love you unconditionally. Unlike family — who can’t help but judge or just not get you — your ride-or-dies have seen every version of you and still show up.

So here’s to them. To the ones who survived the bangs, the bad wine, and the bad decisions. To the women who remind you who you are and laugh with you about all the mistakes that turned into your best stories.

“Here’s to the girls who know all my stories—because they lived them with me.”

So raise a glass to the women behind the woman. Cheers, ladies — you’re the real story worth telling.

If you're lucky enough to have a girlfriend willing to share a hotel room with you and you’re both well past your dorm days, hang on tight—you’ve found a real one.

She’s the kind of friend who stays quiet in the mornings because you are not a morning person. The one who knows you snore (with a vengeance) and still shows up—with earplugs for herself and mouth tape for you. And before your feet even hit the floor? She’s returned with your favorite Americano because hotel room coffee tastes like regret and possibly feet.

So when this brave, beloved friend suggested a four-day girls’ getaway to Mexico City, I said yes faster than you can say más tequila, por favor.

Shopping, sightseeing, and seriously superb dining were on the agenda. What I didn’t expect was the early morning pilgrimage to Pastelería Ideal, a pastry paradise that’s been delighting locals since 1927. You grab a cafeteria tray, some metal tongs, and go wild—ten pounds of carbs later, I was beaming like a kid in a candy store, parading my iconic blue-and-white pastry box around Centro like a badge of honor.

From the sprawling Zócalo to the gilded splendor of the Palacio Postal (yes, even the post offices are fancy here), every step in Mexico City is a feast for the senses. And speaking of feasts—shopping and sipping in Polanco? Non-negotiable. (Nobu and a few other gems may have made the itinerary. We’ll never tell.)

Because here’s the thing: travel is magical. But traveling with her—the friend who knows your quirks, your coffee order, and still chooses to room with you—is the real luxury.

I’m a lucky girl. One of my dearest friends has had a place in Mexico for over a decade—and because I make my bed, load the dishwasher, and don’t touch the thermostat, I get invited back every year. I call that good karma (and even better houseguest etiquette).

Over the years, we’ve made countless memories in Zihuatanejo, a charming little fishing village tucked along the Pacific coast of Mexico. It’s a hidden gem—easy to get to with non-stop flights from Minneapolis to Ixtapa during high season, and even easier to fall in love with.Our days are gloriously simple: sunning our winter-pale skin on Playa La Ropa, paddle boarding in the bay, and eating guacamole for three meals a day without an ounce of guilt. One year, we bought string cheese out of a giant Home Depot bucket and ate it with abandon on the beach. The Department of Health might raise an eyebrow, but I’ll say this: best cheese I’ve ever had!

Evenings are for catching sunsets over tequila at the Thompson Hotel, and every moment in between is filled with that rare, golden kind of laughter that only happens between soul sisters. As the wise Jane Fonda once said, “Women’s friendships are like a renewable source of power.” And let me tell you—mine gets fully recharged with every beachside conversation, inside joke, and shared silence.

Because that’s the thing about true friendship: it doesn’t need to be loud. Sometimes it’s just sitting together, watching the waves, not saying a word—and somehow feeling completely understood.

So yes, I’m a fan of monthly recharge sessions. Of pausing the chaos to laugh, listen, lounge, and love on your people. My Mexico memories aren’t just about margaritas and sunsets—they’re about connection, nourishment, and the joy of being known.

Long live besties, beach days, and a bucket of cheese.