Familiar Strangers

I have a confession to make.

Some of the people I think about most are people I’m not quite sure what to call.

I’ve never met many of them. Others I once knew well. Friend might be the right word for a few. For others, even that doesn’t quite fit.

What they have in common is simpler. I recognize them.

If that sounds strange, I thought so too, until I realized how many of us have relationships exactly like that.

Especially these days.

Every morning, long before most people are awake, I walk seven miles along the same route. For years I thought I was walking alone.

I wasn’t.

There are people I pass so often they’ve become part of the walk itself. We exchange a wave, a nod, sometimes a good morning, and continue on. I know almost nothing about them.

But if one of them disappears for a while, I notice.

At first, I assume we’ve simply missed each other. Then I begin inventing reasons. And every now and then another possibility slips in. Maybe something happened.

I’m not owed an explanation. But their absence tells me something their presence never did.

They’re more important to me than I ever realized.

What I experience on my morning walk isn’t unique. It happens in this space all the time.

There are names I recognize the moment they appear beneath something I’ve written. Some belong to people I’ve been fortunate enough to spend time with. Others belong to people I’ll probably never meet. Somewhere along the way, the distinction stopped mattering.

So many of you have shared pieces of your lives with me, or at least let me know who you are. The highs and lows, the struggles and celebrations, the ordinary moments and the ones that changed everything.

And when one of those names disappears for long enough, I don’t wonder where the reactions and comments went.

I wonder where you went.

I’ve never known quite what to call these relationships.

“Followers” has always sounded a little narcissistic.

“Contacts” belong in an address book.

“Connections” feels too fragile.

“Subscriber” has all the intimacy of a utility bill.

None of those words quite describe what develops between us. Then again, maybe friendship has always been a bigger category than we’ve allowed it to be.

I’m beginning to think we’ve underestimated it.

The world we’ve built is creating more of these relationships than ever before. We work remotely. We meet through screens. We change jobs, move away, retire, and sometimes discover that the last time we saw someone in person was the last time we would ever see them at all.

And yet they don’t necessarily disappear from our lives.

I hadn’t fully appreciated what these places have given us. There was a time when changing jobs, moving away, or simply growing older meant people eventually disappeared. Someone could be your best friend for four years of high school and, twenty years later, become someone you wouldn’t know how to find.

That happens less now.

We aren’t necessarily close anymore. Nobody is asking us to help move a couch or wondering why we didn’t come to the wedding. Instead, we remain part of one another’s lives. A new job. A grandchild. A photograph from a vacation. A difficult year. Enough to know that someone who once mattered is still out there.

The relationship didn’t survive unchanged. But it didn’t disappear either. I’m grateful for that.

I may not know your address anymore. I may not know where you work, or even what city you live in. Yet I still know a little about the person you’re becoming.

We know more about one another’s lives than ever before, and less about where in the world those lives are unfolding.

Maybe these places haven’t replaced relationships. Maybe they’ve simply become another place where relationships continue.

Which makes me think we haven’t been valuing the smallest gestures.

A name you recognize. A thoughtful comment. Someone returning after being gone for a while. They seem too small to matter.

Then again…so does a wave.

And that’s really why I wanted to write this.

You may think you’re simply reading something I wrote. That an occasional comment, the click on a “like,” or returning to read another essay doesn’t amount to much.

But somewhere along the way, you became part of my life.

I recognize your names. I’m glad when you come back. I’ve learned from you, laughed because of you, disagreed with you, and been encouraged by you.

And when you show up, I notice. Not because I expected anything from you.

Because your presence has become part of this other path I walk.

I still don’t know exactly what to call what we have. I’m beginning to think I don’t need to. I just wanted to say something we probably don’t hear often enough.

Thank you.

For showing up. For returning. For becoming part of my life without either of us ever planning for that to happen.

Maybe, for a few of you, I’ve become one of your familiar strangers.

I hope so.