Long-term friendships are like well-worn undies—comfy, a little stretched out, and possibly holding on by sheer force of will, but damn if they aren’t still doing the job. They’ve seen you at your best, your worst, and that regrettable phase in the early 2000s when you thought chunky highlights and a zig-zag part were a solid life choice. These are the people who know your history because they were there for it, and if you’re lucky, they’re still showing up for you decades later, elastic a little frayed but refusing to quit, just like you.

Take my friend Jay, for example. We met when we were 14, and somehow, despite life throwing everything from bad relationships to cross-country moves at us, we’re still here. These days, we’ve found ourselves bonding over running—well, “running” might be a generous term for what we do. Picture two exhausted Gen X’ers shuffling through the park, trying to convince each other (and our joints) that exercise is a good idea. When we’re not wheezing through a slow jog, we’re swapping survival strategies for parenting middle schoolers—because nothing humbles you faster than a pre-teen with a superiority complex, an iPad, and an internet connection.

Then there are Christine and Ariel, who have somehow managed to keep me mentally stable through cancer treatment and the fallout of a dusty bitch relationship (see prior tales of the Faux Mogul). When everything felt like it was crumbling, they didn’t just send a half-hearted “let me know if you need anything” text. Nope. Christine shows up with books meant to keep me laughing instead of spiraling, and she’s always ready for a night of dinner, cocktails, and an absolutely necessary bitching session about life’s latest injustices. Ariel, on the other hand, has some kind of sixth sense for when I’m one minor inconvenience away from losing it. She’ll drop by unannounced or send a perfectly timed “You are loved, don’t fight me on this” message. These two aren’t just friends; they’re the emotional first responders of my life, proving time and again that real friends don’t just stand by you—they show up, sometimes with tequila, sometimes with a ‘WTF’ text, but always exactly when needed.

What makes these friendships so special is that they hold up a mirror to who you’ve been and remind you of who you are. Jay has known me through every iteration of myself—rebellious teenager, overwhelmed parent, ambitious career-driven woman, and now, someone just trying to outrun a breast cancer diagnosis one slow mile at a time. And let’s not forget, we used to date, which means he’s seen the absolute worst version of me possible. The ugly crying, the bad decisions, the questionable style choices—he witnessed it all, and yet, he still sticks around. That says way more about his patience (or poor judgment) than it does about me! There’s something powerful about being seen and accepted, even when you’re limping through a Sunday morning run, questioning every life choice that led you to that moment, yet remaining determined as all get out.

But here’s the thing: as much as we treasure these friendships, they can’t be the only relationships we rely on. Life changes, people grow, and sometimes, you need new friends who understand where you are right now. That’s something I want to explore in the future I think —why finding your tribe, even as a grown up, is just as important as keeping the old guard around.

There’s also a saying about some friendships being seasonal, like leaves—they’re meant to fall. And then there are the ones that are like roots. Christine, Ariel, Jay—they’re my roots. But those seasonal friendships? They mean something too. This is also something I think I’ll be exploring—outside of the DB Club, of course. DBs are a special sort of seasonal relationship that requires careful dissection and, occasionally, a well-placed exit strategy.

For now, though, let’s take a moment to appreciate the friends who have been there for the long haul. The ones who remind us who we were, who we are, and who will still be laughing with us when we’re old, gray, and sitting at a bar, cocktails in hand, bitching about life and loudly declaring our latest grievances to anyone who will listen. Because let’s be honest, at this point, running is optional, but bitching over dinner and drinks is forever (and necessary).