If there were ever a Nobel Prize for friendship, Valeska would win it. The committee would vote unanimously, and she’d come to collect her award.

Valeska first became known to me in my second year French class. She sat far away, with a girl named Daria. A year below me, but in the second-year course of about 20 students, the two were impressive—I wanted in.

We worked on a few group projects together, shared stories, and had a night out or two. I invited her to my 22nd birthday. For my 25th, I decided to invite anyone I could, and from my party date in August 2022, there hasn’t been a week we’ve gone without talking.

I can’t remember exactly how our friendship deepened, but I assume it was because we appreciated each other’s depth. She is one of the smartest women I know—today, a lawyer at a top Toronto firm.

When I started writing 52 Friends, Valeska proudly supported my work. Sharing all of my media appearances in her family’s group chat. “My mom said, ‘I love smart women like this,’” Valeska later told me.

This weekend, she’s busy at a bachelorette party where she is the maid of honour. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks, and then I remember that Valeska is not only a fabulous friend to me, but her distinction comes from being a genuinely close friend to more people than anyone I know.

But by some miracle, she is available, present, and trustworthy, and not just when it is convenient for her. She answers my frequent texts quickly—no matter how stupid my inquiry is. “Did I ever tell you about my aunt who was in a 30-year situationship from 45 to 75?” I texted.

“Omg no!” she replied with sincere interest.

Our typical topics include theorizing on dating and other people’s lives, business, travel, and where to meet men who will understand that we’re untraditionally traditional.

Valeska understands that I think a lot. On a phone call a few weeks ago, I complained about a romantic prospect, someone who managed to move on faster than I did. “The most interesting thing about this person is that someone like you is interested in them,” she reminded me.

Somehow, she remains patient enough to hear me talk about the same thing until I’m over it. When I write this blog in particular, I write thinking to myself, “Will Valeska like this?”

And then I wait for her message in the hours that follow posting to hear her thoughts. Essentially, she does what any good friend should do—make us feel good about ourselves.

Central to our bond is our love for themed parties. She is the greatest proponent of my overplanned birthdays, discussing ideas for them as if they’re Oval Office dinners. What more could I ask for in a friend?

“I will not let anyone walk through my mind with their dirty feet.”

―Mahatma Gandhi

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“If you love someone, just say it. And I don’t mean just in romantic relationships, but be generous with love,” says Ami Rokach.

Dr. Rokach, or Ami, as I call him, has advised me on 52 Friends for over three years. Our friendship began when I sent him a spontaneous email in January 2023, one I threw into the digital universe, not expecting a reply.

Unsurprisingly, from then on, Ami always offered his time indulgently, showing genuine interest in my personal life, especially when it comes to relationships.

To provide a quick introduction, he’s a clinical psychologist who has been teaching at York University for the past 36 years. 28 years of his clinical career were spent at a correctional facility outside of Toronto—longer than a life sentence in his own words.

In the 1980s, after finishing his PhD, Ami tried to find research and books about loneliness, but found himself unable to, so he began writing them himself. Loneliness became his niche.

On 52 Friends, I’ve written about Ami several times. Here are my favourite contributions:

• Episode 5: Are we alone in loneliness?

• The Sex Therapist: A Man of Sensibilities

In Ami’s presence, one can sense that he cares deeply about people. He shakes hands with my videographers and asks for introductions.

As we sit in a classroom outside his office at York University, Ami explains that his goal throughout his career has been to address the stigma surrounding loneliness. “To bring loneliness out of the closet,” he says.

Loneliness, he described to me the first time we spoke, is just like hunger and fear and joy and sadness. It’s part of being human.

A pioneer in the human connection space, Ami shares that if he were a king and could enact whatever was necessary, he would teach toddlers the importance of friendship and social connection. “In school, we are taught to achieve, and achievement is fine, but we are not rewarded for telling another kid, 'Come join us in our play,’” Ami says.

He’d change our hierarchy of societal values so that we’d all understand the importance of being connected to people.

In our conversation, we discussed the loneliness stigma, knowing ourselves, taking risks, Ami’s career, and romantic relationships. Have a listen and let me know what you think.

Love,

Miriam

“People who need people are the luckiest people in the world.”

―Barbra Streisand

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Dear friend,

Like a bolt of lightning that ignites fire, tragedy has struck my street, Sorrento Drive. Beloved Danielle, friend #36, fell asleep in the early hours of Friday, April 3rd and never awoke.

My younger brother Jesse’s classmate's early and sudden passing has left us all in shock. At Danielle’s funeral on Tuesday, the Rabbi avowed that we should not count the number of years she lived, but instead measure the impact of those years.

My participation in this equation seems almost unworthy, but I can do what I know, tell you about someone so that you, too, can get to know my friend.

Danielle was gentle and found joy in life’s simplicities. A gifted piano player and writer, she was in the middle of writing a book on our individual relationships with G-D. Naturally, I found a friend in someone who wrestled with ideas; instinctively empathetic to people she knew and met.

Her life ended on the third day of Passover, a holiday which celebrates the Jewish exodus from Egypt. A time when we are reminded of our humility and eat an unleavened flatbread made with just flour and water, called matzah.

Danielle, like matzah in its symbolism, was humble, grounded, and satisfied with the essentials.

In 2005, on my brother’s first day of grade one, my father turned around to see his former high school classmate, Diana, with her daughter Danielle. Serendipitously, as two families, we stayed connected since then—Jesse and Danielle founded a band for the last two years of elementary school, in 2011, we moved onto the same street, and at the end of 2022, my mom introduced Danielle to her long-term boyfriend.

“Do you want to hear something funny? They like each other,” my mom texted me about a romantic match I foolishly discouraged when she described it beforehand. Then, I learned a lesson—never to prevent connection, as it will forever remain a mystery why two people fall in love, and Danielle was deeply loved by her boyfriend.

When the two of us met, Danielle and I, she often spoke about the difficulty of making friends. As I worked on 52 Friends, she helped me understand that as a community, we should openly welcome one another, not just be nice, but to genuinely and wholeheartedly get to know and include each other.

Selfishly, now, I wish we had more time to build our friendship. Maybe it would continue to be as playful as our families’ reconnections. It’s sorrowful to imagine what will never be.

Following the funeral, this past Tuesday, we sat Shiva. In Judaism, a formal seven-day mourning period during which we reminisce on memories of our loved one. It felt warm to sit together as friends and family. My brother played an old video of Danielle singing from their band days.

I never know how to feel about meeting new people in unfortunate circumstances, but we’re all connected by our love of Danielle.

May her memory be a blessing, and may peace be upon her.

Love,

Miriam

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Dear friend,

Nahid and I met when she came to buy a ring from me about two years ago. She had replied to a Facebook marketplace ad. With time, and as a repeat customer, her love of both jewelry and storytelling began to inspire me.

As the middle of nine children, she had once dreamed of becoming an artist before being forced to marry her first boyfriend. Weeks ago, we sat down to record our conversation in which we spoke about her life pre and post the 1979 Iranian revolution, her marriage, life in Canada and current fears.

Central to our discussion are Nahid’s three visits back to Iran since immigrating to Canada in 1988. The first and least notable was in 1999, 13 years after leaving.

The second time was because of her younger sister. Her sister had lived in Canada with her two young children, but in Nahid’s own words, “She had a problem with her husband. He was very abusive. He was a very sick person who hated women.”

Eventually, he took the kids to Iran and forbade her sister from seeing them. Her sister consulted a lawyer in Dubai, but Iranian law favours men, leaving her with no way to get her children back. In Dubai, she committed suicide.

Eight months after her sister passed, Nahid returned to Iran to stay with her family and during her visit, her brother was killed. He was a brilliant man who spoke three languages and was a PhD student working in Sweden.

His wife and daughter wanted to move back to Iran, and there, the government arranged a meeting with him. He later told Nahid that they had asked to send him to spy in Europe. Her brother insisted that he go back to Sweden to collect his life and business, but three days later, she found him dead in his bedroom. One of his hands was tied to the headboard.

They had less than 24 hours to bury him and were forbidden from investigating his death. Nahid knew that even from Canada, such an investigation would go nowhere.

Today, she is inspired by the bravery of young Iranians who are advocating for change—those who took to the streets of Iran with their wills in their pockets or posted online, risking their lives for a better future.

She reminds me that Iran is a beautiful country and that with change, more of us will be able to see it.

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Read my first post with Christi & Shaun here. I’ll be writing about Christi and Shaun for my book, so I’ve shared what I can.

When I think of the kind of romantic relationship I’d want for myself, I think of Christi and Shaun’s marriage—a love rooted in friendship.

It’s a Sunday morning, a few weeks ago, and we’re having breakfast at Christi and Shaun’s new house. Well, I guess it's new to me; the two have lived there for about a year.

Christi has prepared a delicious table, featuring an array of cream cheeses, vegetables and bagels. We’re joined by their two dogs, Butter & Brisket, who sit at our feet.

Our conversation touches on a variety of topics. “The happiest I’ve seen Shaun this whole year was when he got an invitation in the mail for his annual golf tournament,” says Christi.

Shaun and his three close friends host a yearly match.

Over the years, Christi has felt like an honest mentor and a point of comfort for me. As my first manager at my first full-time job out of university, she’s always been open about her experiences—I was there to witness the start of her relationship with Shaun when Christi briefed me in September 2020 during a lunch break.

They met on August 30th and moved in together on September 4th of the same year.

“How do you think of love with Shaun?” I once asked Christi.

“How immediately comfortable I felt. He made me feel really accepted. I didn’t feel like I needed to change anything about myself or who I was. All of that was accepted at face value,” she said as her eyes filled with tears.

When Christi turned 32 in June, 2020, she cemented it as the year of balance. “I thought, ‘I don’t care if I’m going to meet someone.’ I hated when people would tell me I’d find someone when I least expected,” she said.

Clearly, it worked.

At our breakfast, over five years later, it’s understood that we’ve both learned to embrace balance. “I feel much calmer now,” I say. “One of my lowest points was when I was dog-sitting Butter and Brisket in May 2022, and the police rang the doorbell in the middle of the night.”

They were looking for someone who had once lived in the apartment, not me and the dogs.

It’s been special to have Christi witness my 20s. From my first day of work in 2019 to my office opening this past September. Who would have thought a manager could become such a great friend?

As food lovers, Christi and Shaun hope to visit San Sebastian later this year. I went last year before a wedding in Paris and need to send them a list of recommendations.

Before I leave, Christi shares a recipe for the Korean Marinated Eggs she made for breakfast. Here is the recipe. I tried it for dinner this week, and my family loved it.

“The way you make an omelet reveals your character.”
―Anthony Bourdain

I’ve started a new video series, interviewing some of my friends. My first guest was a matchmaker. Here is a clip from our chat.

Talk soon,

Miriam

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I met with Ami Rokach this week. We were recording an episode for my new video series—our conversation will be up soon. Candidly, I thought we’d lost touch until Ami sent me an email a few weeks ago. The one below.

For anyone who's lost track of the characters in my life, Ami is a clinical psychologist who has been researching and teaching about loneliness, human sexuality, and psychotherapy for the past 40 years.

He’s been a solid point of contact since I started writing about loneliness and generally a treat to speak to. As I sat across from Ami at York University, I remembered the first time I emailed him three years ago. In our first conversation, he described the stigma surrounding loneliness.

There is a stigma related to loneliness because it is seen as a weakness. Ami explains, “The rationale behind it goes something like this, ‘If I’m lonely, that means no one wants to be with me. If no one wants to be with me, that means I’m a loser, and I’m not worthy of being loved. Our society adores successful people and high achievers. So not only am I ashamed of my loneliness, but I don’t want to advertise it for fear that other people might not want to come close to me because they may be concerned that they will be seen as losers as well.’”

A decline in my blog’s readership has recently been a concern to me. I’ve had trouble pinpointing the reason—my writing, a lack of interest in reading, a mismatched demographic.

After my afternoon with Ami, I began to realize it could be because, during the pandemic, we became comfortable admitting our loneliness as it placed us in the majority—most of us were experiencing it. Today, the idea of loneliness has reverted to its pre-pandemic form—something to be ashamed of as the world has returned to “normal".

Unfortunately, accepting such a rationale neglects our need to prioritize friendship or worse, causes us to abandon anyone who may be chronically lonely.

So, my greatest update three years from then is never to let ourselves view the pursuit of friendship as something demeaning.

On a personal level, I’m having fun. I feel lucky that three years ago I had the time, means, and support to transition from what felt like an old life to a new one—despite how painful it felt letting go of certain friendships.

I’ve been less motivated to write because I ruminate less than I used to. It’s done intentionally for my mental health and also so that I can enjoy my friendships without unnecessary analysis.

What I do know is that I made a lot of friends three years ago, during a down period when I was able to surround myself with people who saw me for who I was, not what I was going through, and for that, I’m fortunate.

Let’s keep going.

Love,

Miriam

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Hey friend, I’ve been working heavily with a colleague to turn 52 Friends into a video series—you’ll see it up in the next few weeks. Be sure to follow our Instagram to stay up-to-date.

When I think of Lindsay, I remember her as a fourteen-year-old in grade nine science class. Maybe that’s why it always feels so comfortable to chat.

In the fourteen years since then, she’s moved to Halifax, completed her nursing degree, survived a stroke, bought a house, lost her mother, and become engaged to her long-time partner, Cyle.

Though the last time I ran into Lindsay in person was years ago at the mall, we’ve made time to talk over video.

“I caught up with one of my friends from nursing school,” she says. “After nursing school, she moved to Victoria, BC. She’s moved back, and we all got together last night, and each went around and said the things that have happened over the last six years, and as I’m talking, I was like ‘Man, a lot of things have happened in the last six years.’”

When Lindsay and I first reconnected three years ago (read about it here), she used the phrase ‘The show must go on’ to describe how she handles hardship.

“I always use that phrase with my mom. She went through breast cancer, and experienced physical changes, but I remind her that this is season two of the show,” I say while complimenting Lindsay’s pragmatic mindset.

“I feel like I get that from my dad,” she replies. “My dad is very much, ‘Okay, something happened to you. What are you going to do about it? Nothing. Okay, move on.’”

Lindsay was lucky to have met Cyle at nineteen during nursing school, and decided to stay in Halifax after her final placement.

“I wouldn’t be able to get through what I did without Cyle,” she says. “There is animosity in our family because we lost our mom, between my dad and brother, and dad and sister, so the dynamics have changed. Home doesn’t feel like home anymore, which is weird to think of.”

She continues by sharing that her dad started dating another woman six months after her mom passed away. “It’s kind of two feelings. Obviously, I want my dad to live his life, have a companion, and feel happy. But at the same time, I don’t,” she says as we both smile with general understanding.

Lindsay and Cyle have a wedding date set for September. They bought a house 20 minutes from downtown Halifax, and Cyle’s parents live nearby.

“Who do you spend the most time with?” I ask.

“I’m still really good friends with my friends from nursing school. We have a good group. Then two friends from work whom I met when I started working. I keep up with them. My roommates from university are all spread out, but when they’re back in town, we hang out,” she says.

She’s currently in a nurse practitioner program and will graduate in May 2026.

“Where I’m placed, it’s very rural. Some people are unhealthy and don’t go to the doctor because they don’t go into the city. It’s a bit of a challenge because we’ll say, ‘This is where you need to go for this service or referral,’ and they won’t go because they’re afraid to drive on the big roads,” Lindsay explains.

“When I think of the East Coast, I imagine people as more community-oriented,” I say as a question.

“100 percent, I would say everyone is a lot nicer,” says Lindsay. “I was scrolling Facebook, and saw a post in a group where someone wrote, ‘Is there anyone who can drive me to the airport? My car just broke down.’ And there were already seven comments asking, ‘What’s your address? I’ll come right now and take you to the airport.’ That wouldn’t be a thing anywhere in the GTA.”

When Lindsay last visited Toronto, she found a recipe book in her childhood home that her grandmother had made while she was in her nursing home. “Every resident had a recipe in the book. I thought, ‘This is amazing,’ and I kept the book. Now I have the recipe from my grandma, but also all of her friends at the nursing home,” she says.

Lindsay’s Favourite Dinner Idea

Chicken Broccoli Divan (The Campbell’s Soup Recipe). Try it and let us know what you think!

“Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”

—Lucy Maud Montgomery

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Luigi and Sofia are set to marry on September 1, 2026, in the groom’s home country, Malta. I’ve just received the save-the-date.

The two met on the dating app Hinge in spring 2023.

“Do you love Sofia?” I once texted Luigi early in their relationship.

“Yes,” he wrote back.

What’s amusing to me is that Luigi and I never spoke during our university years. He once remembers a quick conversation in passing, but it wasn’t until 52 Friends and our coffee in January 2023 that a friendship began to form. You can read about it here.

At the time, his interest in my project gave me the courage to share it further. Ultimately leading to some modest media coverage.

Today, Luigi, a CPA, does my accounting. As a jeweller, I sourced the diamond and worked on the design for his engagement ring when it was time to propose to Sofia.

The pair are elegant, complementary and a pleasure to have as friends. We’ve been trying to schedule a dinner—actually, we had plans, but Luigi got sick and then gave it to Sofia, so we’re chatting on the phone.

“Did you send Miriam the save-the-date?” Sofia asks Luigi.

“Yes, I got it,” I say.

“We want to see you there,” says Sofia.

They expect to have around 60 people—a mix of close friends and family. The location was chosen for its easy access to European guests. Sofia grew up in Russia but lived in the UK, Switzerland and the Middle East before immigrating to Canada.

“What was your first impression of Luigi?” I ask Sophia.

“I thought, ‘Damn, he’s so shy and closed, and we have such a big cultural gap. I don’t think we’ll get along.’ I am very open and direct, and he weaved around my questions,” she says.

“I gave cautious answers,” Luigi assures us.

“It’s not a job interview; we need to be open. But I like challenges and knew I needed to squeeze this guy as much as possible. As much as he was pushing back, he gave up and shared everything about himself,” says Sofia.

“I was very nervous, Sofia brought the most important questions,” says Luigi.

She avows that Luigi’s behaviour angered her to an extent. “I’m here at the date, ready to put 100 percent into getting to know you, and you’re here giving me 50 percent. But I thought, ‘Let me do it my way,’” says Sofia.

“What did you squeeze out?” says Luigi.

“When I finally squeezed out something real, I thought, ‘Here is an interesting person.’ I want to walk on your grass, swim in your sea and see what you’re like,” says Sofia.

“I did feel like I was standing underneath a waterfall. Sofia was very direct and really wanted to get to know me. It was a little overwhelming but also refreshing. She seemed serious about finding a life partner and was straight to the point,” says Luigi.

The idea of personality tailoring didn’t appeal to Sofia, who wanted to get to know the real Luigi.

“The first date is a big scam, and true things come up later, but if you’re both motivated to find a long-term partner, open your cards. Of course, keep some jokers, but the main thing is open up,” says Sofia.

Luigi explains that he has a lot of respect for Sofia, having come to Canada as an adult and not knowing anyone, yet still putting in effort to meet new people and build new connections.

I’ll write next from their wedding. Stay tuned.

“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.”

– Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare

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In May 2023, I was a guest on Steve Paiken’s show The Agenda. He posed this question.

“There will be women watching this right now who will say to themselves, ‘I’m not really comfortable with the idea of a guy I don’t know just sort of getting in my personal space and saying ‘Hi,’ to me in public.’ I know they think they’re being friendly, but we live in a different era nowadays. How do we figure all that out?”

I quickly gathered a response to explain that it was a matter of tact and context. The topic has arisen a few times in my conversations with Julian since we first connected in January 2023.

Three years ago, the two of us, unknown to each other, had just returned to Toronto from living in Miami. At our first coffee, we bonded over our shared experiences and our mutual friends from university. Julian quickly became a staple in my newly formed friend group, but I hadn’t seen him in the last year, as he had moved to Montreal to complete his Master’s in Analytics.

Our holiday plans make it difficult to catch up in person, so we chat on FaceTime. “How did you meet your girlfriend?" I ask about his now ten-month romance.

“I’ll tell you because I know you like this stuff. A month into moving there, I was walking home from school, and I saw her walking toward me. She was on her way to meet some friends for drinks—it was kind of the evening. It was the summer, August first, and she was walking toward me all dressed up. I saw her and stopped her on the street and just said, ‘Hey, I think you look absolutely beautiful, and I want to get to know you,’” says Julian.

“That’s really brave!” I say.

“I had to grow a pair,” replies Julian. “It was not easy.”

“Well, it was worth it,” I say back. “When you lived in Miami, I remember you telling me you met a group of guys that would approach women.”

“They were the guys who introduced me to it. I didn’t even know this was a concept. It’s really old school,” he says. “There are people who use it for good or evil, it’s like anything really. You just have to suss them out.”

I tell Julian about a recent experience at a singles’ event. Someone who approached me kindly but ended up being a flop.

“The context 100 percent matters. If you get approached at night, it’s a bit worse because they might think that the guy is not serious or looking for something quick. But if it’s done during the day, people are usually sober. The time of day matters. Where and when,” says Julian.

He goes on to share that he once asked his girlfriend if she would have had the same reaction if her had spooked her from behind. She said, “Probably not.”

“Little things like that matter,” says Julian. “Usually, within eight seconds, you can get a good read as to whether the person is interested or not. I knew almost immediately that she was.”

"My most brilliant achievement was my ability to persuade my wife to marry me."

—Winston Churchill

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It’s December 15, 2025, and we’ve gathered at our kitchen table to celebrate my grandpa Mordecai’s birthday—though he’s more commonly called Mike or Misha.

Our dinner, in true fashion, becomes a place for reflection for all his major milestones since his birth in 1936 to Jewish parents in Zarasai, Lithuania.

My grandpa was three when World War II began in Europe. His father, Joseph, joined the Russian army, while he, his mother, and his sister escaped to Uzbekistan. There, they lived in such poverty that at age six, his mother looked for a place to bury my grandfather as his death seemed near.

They were saved by an uncle named Shlom Mayer, who arrived from the military and slowly began feeding my grandfather wet breadcrumbs.

After the war, they moved to Vilnius, where they were reunited with their father, who had also narrowly escaped death. My grandfather began school, and when he was 18, he joined the Russian military, serving as a firetruck driver for the majority of his three-year term.

At 25, he met and married my grandmother, Rozalya (friend #30). My father was born shortly after in 1964, and my aunt was born in 1972. They immigrated to Israel that same year.

In November 1981, my grandfather achieved his lifelong dream of moving to Canada—in his own words, a quiet, multicultural country where they would be accepted. In Canada, he worked as a maintenance mechanic and in 1984, he started selling used cars with my father.

I was his first grandchild and the first Canadian-born member of my family on my birthday in August 1997.

My grandpa, now at 89, displays his pragmatism.

“What are you most proud of in life?” I ask.

“I am very proud that I’m a very good mechanic,” he replies.

“His profession,” says my grandma.

“How did you learn to be a good mechanic?” I ask.

“In the Russian military, they sent me on a course to learn how to be a mechanic. Then, when I finished the course, I worked as a military mechanic, and I saw that I could do mechanical work on any car,” he says.

“And what’s your advice to the young generation?” I continue.

“Don’t do hard physical work,” he says.

“If someone had asked me,” says my grandma, Rozalya, “I would say, ‘Never put yourself down, always be confident in yourself. Don’t think that someone’s better than you and that they can do something that you can’t. There’s no reason to think like that. That’s the first thing.

The second, never be too good to people and don’t believe everyone. Some deserve your kindness, some people don’t. People will use you if you’re too good to them.”

My grandma goes on to explain that she believes the most important step in life is marriage. “Marriage can make you lucky, or it can make you very upset,” she says.

“When you’re looking for a person to live your life with, the person has to be good-hearted. That’s the most important. It doesn’t matter if he’s tall or short or whatever people look at. That’s not important. Kindness is important and a good heart.”

My grandparents’ marriage is a testament to this advice. They have different interests—my grandma prefers to talk politics and art, and my grandpa is simpler, prioritizing his work and a home-cooked meal. But for over 60 years, they’ve made their love work.

“Who was your best childhood friend?” I ask my grandfather.

“I had a Jewish friend. His name was Leon, and when people started looking at how to leave Russia, he found a Russian girl and married her and moved to New York,” he says.

“When did you meet him?” I ask.

“I was 16, maybe 16.5, and he was the same age,” says my grandpa.

“Why did you decide that he’s your best friend? What made him your best friend?” asks my mom.

“I didn’t have many friends in Canada. From what I had, I consider him one of my best friends,” my grandpa says.

“Did you make any friends in Canada?” I ask. “Or was it difficult?”

“Not really,” says my grandpa.

“Why not? What about Sonia and Misha?” says my grandma.

“Sonia, Misha, they are people I know,” says my grandpa. “Not very close friends.”

“What do you consider a close friend?” I ask.

“A close friend is someone who we were friends either at work, for example, or after work. And if I need something, he looks after me, or I look after him. That’s a friend,” says my grandpa.

“I’m eating too much,” says my grandma.

“So stop eating,” says my grandpa.

“It’s okay,” says my mom.

With each immigration, my grandparents lost friends—especially at a time when communication was difficult. Now, they have friends whom they call to wish a happy birthday. But it dawns on me that they’ll probably never physically see these friends again.

“Did you ever want to meet Leon?” I ask of a man he hasn’t seen since his early 20s.

“I would want to. But he doesn’t come to Canada,” says my grandpa.

“We don’t know where he is,” says my grandma. “New York is big. We don’t know his phone number, we don’t know anything.”

“What about the Polish guy you were friends with?” I ask.

“I was his friend before the Russian military, but then we were put in different bases. After the military, we lived in the same neighbourhood and worked in the same factory for textile machines,” says my grandpa.

“And when did he go to Poland?” I ask.

“He left in 1958. The Russian government let the Polish people who lived in Lithuania go to Poland. He left, and that’s it. But I was writing him letters and he to me. I went to visit him in 1969. I drove to Poland, and he married and had one boy. He was a very nice, honest person,” says my grandpa.

“You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.”

—Exodus 23:9

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It’s the middle of July. New York is hot, and I’m there that week for a course at the Gemological Institute called Gem Identification.

The objective is to learn how to use the tools needed to identify gems—in simple terms, conducting a series of tests to know that a sapphire’s a sapphire or a ruby’s a ruby.

I’ve become comfortable with the school and the Diamond District in New York, as this is my third trip to the city in the last few months. The first time I was there in March, I made a friend in my diamond course named La Min. He’s originally from Myanmar, where his family runs a jade farm, and moved to New York five years ago to work at the International Gemological Institute (IGI).

The second time we met, he insisted on buying me lunch because by chance we ended up in the same course. This time, I’ve intentionally signed up knowing La Min will be there, and I sit beside him at the back of our class of 20. Next to him is someone new—her name is Urvashi.

“Do you want to get lunch together?” she says to La Min when it’s noon time.

The three of us eat in the courtyard near the school. I’m surprised to discover that even as an adult, the classroom acts as a quick way to make friends. Maybe it’s how closely we sit to one another or the fact that we share similar interests—probably it’s because there is an immediate bonding when learning together.

Urvashi tells us that she moved to New York in 2013 from Thailand. “Finding friends was not particularly easy because New York is very different than home,” she says.

She was 18 at the time and explains that in Thailand, and especially at school, “there was a lot more culture.”

“At my school, there were a lot of Koreans, and not everyone understood what goes on in Indian culture, but we made an effort to participate in each other’s holidays throughout the year,” Urvashi says.

“I have a love-hate relationship with New York. Initially, I didn’t believe I would ever get used to it, but my dad stayed in New York for a couple of years, building his business, and assured me that it was the land of opportunities. I didn’t believe it because I was missing home, the food, the weather, the people.

Thai people are soft and nice,” she says.

In New York, she had to toughen up and get comfortable with the cold. As the years passed, the big city became home.

Over the five-day course and daily lunches, we left feeling like friends.

“Come stay with me the next time you’re in New York,” she said.

In the months since then, we stayed in touch on social media, had a few phone calls, and exchanged pictures of gemstones.

We caught up thoroughly a few weeks ago.

“What was it like growing up in the gem industry?” I ask Urvashi. Her father is a gem dealer, but she wanted nothing to do with his field until recently.

“I took it for granted. But now I see his passion come through, and I want to know, ‘How is business?’ or ‘What is this?’”

She’s just come back from two months in Thailand, where she shadowed her father and went to the countryside to source stones and see how roughs are converted to cut stones. “That aspect was very interesting. Seeing something evolve from being a rough to being set in jewelry,” she says.

We’re both glad we’ve found ourselves in this industry, me through my uncle’s influence and Urvashi’s through her father.

“Women don’t go to the mines,” she says. “But I did tell my dad, I really want to go look at actual mines. There are still some old ways that they mine these gemstones. The books can only show you so much; you have to go and see it.”

As a curious risk-taker, I relate to Urvashi.

“Was it difficult to build a life in New York?” I ask.

“When I came here, I never really knew what was going on in someone’s life. If I felt homesick, I knew a lot of people, but I realized I was actually kind of alone,” she says of her time in university.

“To me, a true friend is someone who is there in the good and bad times. I expect to be there for them in their bad times. I was part of their good times, but not part of their bad times. What kind of friendship is it if we go on vacation or spend a weekend together, but in someone’s bad times, I can’t be there for them?”

There is a certain closeness built when we see someone at their worst or when they see us at our worst, and we’re able to get through it together. A trust is created when we’re accepted and supported in these circumstances. But do we all value that side of friendship?

“When I came back to the GIA for the diamond course, I couldn’t find people to go to lunch with,” says Urvashi. “I quickly asked, but everyone seemed to have their own plans.”

“That’s interesting because I hate eating alone,” I say. I begin to think that maybe I had just been lucky in the classroom.

“If we don’t tell our own stories, no one else will.”

—Mira Nair

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Read our first post together, three years ago, here.

Lilian was married on Saturday evening at the University of Toronto’s Hart House. I was lucky to be one of the ~ 60 guests invited.

Three years ago, in September 2022, she and I first met at a corporate speed networking event. We had a few minutes to speak, but later came up to one another to continue the conversation. “You’re my favourite person,” we both said.

Months later, when my project was picked up by the Toronto Star, Lilian told the journalist, “Miriam is really easy to connect with instantly,” recalling how Amdur was vulnerable and talked about her personal life. “That’s so rare. I just felt like I knew her a lot more after five minutes than anyone else there.”

How flattering!

In the years since then, Lilian has proven to be a kind and supportive friend. Our relationship began with casual Slack messages that turned into dinner dates and walks in the park.

In the spring, I met Lilian (who has since relocated to New York) and her husband, Evgeny, for dinner on the Upper West Side at a restaurant called Miriam.

My mom, who joined us for dinner, was impressed by the young couple. Asking about their love story—the two shared a table at a bar in 2018, and the rest was history.

Evgeny is also from Toronto, but moved to New York a few years ago for a fancy engineering job. I learned during their wedding speeches that he completed his PhD at the University of Toronto. Still, he shared candidly that if it weren’t for Lilian’s planning skills, the wedding would probably be in the school’s basement.

Also, a key member of the wedding day was Lilian’s other half, her identical twin, Stephanie. Stephanie lives and works in Ottawa (I introduced her to friend #45, Violette, at my 26th birthday two years ago, and they’ve been chatting since).

Lilian’s friends, seated near me at the wedding, agree that she is the kind of friend who always makes an effort to reach out. “The twins are really great at maintaining the relationship,” one said.

“Every time Lilian is in Toronto, she messages me to hang out,” says Michelle, Lilian’s former co-worker, when I drove her home.

I’m lucky that I found Lilian, as it’s rare to find people who reciprocate friendship so effortlessly. I also have her to thank for encouraging 52 Friends in its early days—I then only had a few posts up and a picture of the Little Prince as my logo.

Lilian assured me that I would be successful and that loneliness was something worth writing about.

I’m glad I listened.

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“How beautiful it is to find someone who asks for nothing but your company.”
—Brigitte Nicole

Miguel and I connected through friend #10, Luigi. We were in the same tech program founded by friend #1, Loren, and it was after my first Toronto Star article in March 2023 that we realized Luigi was a mutual friend.

The two of us arranged a Zoom call during which I questioned him about the state of his friendships. After that, I’m not sure how it happened, but Miguel came to a few of the 52 Friends gatherings I hosted, my 26th birthday. He became the kind of friend I’d look for at tech events when I was too shy to mingle.

I haven’t seen him in at least a year when we sit down for coffee at a downtown Toronto café.

Miriam: Lilian is getting married, you know, Lilian (friend #5), right?

Miguel: I thought she was already married?

Miriam: She got married on paper. Her actual wedding is the end of November.

(We speak of wedding invites. Of being invited to events when we haven’t seen the person in years, but still appreciating the invite.)

Miriam: You just did a marathon, I saw. Have you always been a runner?

Miguel: I started running in May of last year. At the time, my Muay Thai gym was having a running challenge for charity, and at that point, I had never run besides playing soccer. But I thought, “Okay, if I’m going to do this to raise the money, let me just join a run club,” and it ended up being fun.

You meet a lot of people. I would say there are a lot of running communities, so it’s very easy to make friends. Some of them have a dating reputation as well.

I didn’t even go to meet people, and then I discovered this running community downtown. On Friday mornings, we go for a run, have coffee, then go home and work. I incorporate that into my routine.

There’s a rule in run club: ‘No one runs alone.’

Miriam: Have you made good friends or more casual connections?

Miguel: I would say in terms of good friends, maybe two or three. I reconnected with someone I went to university with. I hadn’t spoken to him since university, and we kind of knew each other then, and reconnected at run club, and we’ve become a lot closer. Now he’s one of my close friends.

We went to Thailand together.

Miriam: You went to Thailand with him?

Miguel: Yes, back in November.

I was going to Thailand, and he was going to a friend’s Bachelor party, so I kind of crashed their bachelor party.

(An amber alert goes off.)

Miriam: You have a brother, right?

Miguel: Yeah, I do.

Miriam: Does he live beside you?

Miguel: No, he’s 21 and lives with my dad. I’m helping him get his life together.

Those were my mom’s last words to me: “Take care of your brother.” So that’s what I’m doing.

One thing, I know you reached out to me when my mother passed away, and I’ve had some people comment, “Oh, I didn’t know her…,” but going through that process for the first time, it actually means a lot having people reach out or show up. It’s like “Wow,” it makes you feel really supported.

Miriam: Luigi messaged me that he went to the funeral home, and then I said, “Why didn’t you tell me I would have gone with you?” And he said sorry, but I thought, “This is why you don’t make plans with men.”

Miguel: Making plans with men is awful, I know. I forgot I had dinner plans this evening.

Miriam: Luigi had said she was sick for a while?

Miguel: Yeah, she was battling cancer for 5 years.

Miriam: Breast cancer?

Miguel: A very rare form of cancer. It was a cancer that grows in the muscle tissue. And that specific one is more common in women than it is in men.

Apparently 80% of people who have it die in the first two years. And my mom lived for five years. She surprised all the doctors.

I remember it was the day after the Raptors won the championship, she had her surgery at 6:30 am the next day. I was out with my brother, here, celebrating. I got one hour of sleep and drove her to the hospital for her procedure.

At the beginning, it was tough, but I would say for the first three years, she was still active and working.

Miriam: What did she do for work?

Miguel: She was a housekeeper. Very typical immigrant job. A lot of people that she worked for were also very supportive.

The one thing I will say is that it did feel like there was a lot of good closure. All of her sisters came here. We knew that she didn’t have much time left, so everyone made the effort to come for Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, her birthday, everything.

When it happened, you also feel a little bit of relief. Because her last seven to eight months, she was suffering so much. She was taking hydromorphone every day.

Miriam: How old was she?

Miguel: She was 63.

Miriam: That’s really tough.

Miguel: It is, but I would say it was a lot tougher for me when I found out that she didn’t have too much time left than when she passed. That moment was a lot harder for me. It happened on my birthday last year.

I was supposed to go to my parents for dinner, and I couldn’t because she got admitted to the hospital. I brought cupcakes and everything to the hospital because it was my birthday.

And that’s when my aunt told us that she didn’t have that much time left.

Apparently, at the time, the doctor told her that she didn’t even have a month left, but she didn’t tell any of us. It’s crazy because I was going to Thailand the next month, there’s no way I would have gone if I had known.

But that was her mindset; she didn’t want her condition to stop our lives.

Miriam: Were you and your brother born in Canada?

Miguel: Yes, I was born here. My parents were born in Portugal. In very rural places that you’d never go to.

Miriam: And they met there?

Miguel: No, they actually met here. In their early 30s, they met at church. My dad saw her at church, and then I guess she was walking up the street with her sisters, and he went up to her.

Miriam: It was easier then. Is your dad still working?

Miguel: No, he’s retired. He’s been retired for 10 years. It was kind of a forced retirement. He had to get knee replacements because he was a roofer. So as soon as he got the knee replacements, he couldn’t go back.

(During our conversation, Miguel asks about my updates. He’s aware of my career change and remembers a friend who made a similar transition from tech to jewelry.)

Miguel: I probably hadn’t thought of him in years. Now I think, “Oh, I know a guy.”

Miriam: I feel that people have this hesitation when reaching out to someone, “Will they want to hear from me? Or will they be annoyed?” I don’t feel like that, I think “Yay! They remember my existence.”

Miguel: I agree, it depends on whether it’s someone you had a good relationship with. It doesn’t work if they want something from you, like a job referral or some other kind of nonsense, or a favour.

(He thinks for a moment.)

If I haven’t spoken to someone in years, I guess it’s still better to just be direct instead of being fake nice.

Miriam: I reached out to this woman last year, when I wasn’t sure if I was going to do the jewelry business or switch jobs, and I hadn’t spoken to her in maybe six months. I knew she was in product marketing, and I wrote to her asking if she hears of anything to let me know. And she read it and didn’t even answer. And I started thinking, is it rude that I went in with the ask?

Miguel: Is it someone that you knew?

Miriam: I knew her, but I never knew her well. She’s more of a work connection, and I didn’t want to hide my intentions.

Miguel: I don’t see the problem. If it’s a work connection, it’s better than asking about someone’s personal life when you don’t care.

Miriam: As someone who went through grief, how did you want your friends to respond, and what did you appreciate from friends?

Miguel: I wouldn’t want anything different than what I had. I felt so supported. I felt so supported during the whole process. My friends, one day, randomly brought sandwiches for all of us to the hospital. Even messages from people I don’t talk to, to others who went to the funeral home or the mass.

Making someone feel supported is really the only thing you can do. It’s the only thing that really matters. There is nothing that anyone can do. I also saw that support from people I had met across different points of my life, like elementary, high school, from all the jobs I’ve had and all the communities I’ve been in. Whether it’s Muay Thai or running, or soccer, everyone I felt I had interacted with throughout my life, at least one person from every part of it, showed support, and it makes you feel like people care about you, and that’s the most important thing.

“A great soul serves everyone all the time. A great soul never dies. It brings us together again and again.”

—Maya Angelou

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Click here to read how our friendship started three years ago.

Three years ago, friend #3, Zeenath, and I matched on Bumble BFF. We had a quick conversation on the app, then went out for a night in Miami.

Though we only had a few weeks to spend as friends, I still remember feeling like our connection was far from immaterial. We spoke of our families, relationships and divulged secrets over dinners.

We’ve yet to be in the same place at the same time since then, but have caught up over video calls—staying up-to-date on the gist of one another’s lives.

It’s funny that friends come to act as souvenirs (I hesitated to use the word) of specific chapters— “October to November of 2022”.

Earlier this year, near Valentine’s Day, Zeenath and her childhood friend took a quick, spontaneous trip to Toronto, and I was happy to be included in her plans. We drank coffee at a café near the St. Lawrence Market, and it felt as if no time had passed.

I credit our swift reconnection to Zeenath’s charmingly warm personality. She shares her Myers-Briggs with the Michael Scott.

“I feel like I’ve finally settled into the resident doctor role,” she says. “I’m lucky to have my friends nearby so I can see them whenever I want or have time to. The longest-lasting and worthwhile friends are the ones that understand your schedule and never hold it against you if you have to reschedule or if you haven’t seen them in months or don’t respond to their text messages in a timely manner.”

“Have you developed friendships with coworkers because you spend a lot of time with them?” I ask.

“Yes, I spend lots of time with coworkers at work. Especially since most are not from the area, and since residency is very rigorous and time-consuming, we almost naturally form a trauma bond. Maybe we’ll go on a walk in the sunshine if we have a few spare minutes or grab a quick snack. The biggest bonds are formed during night shifts when staff is sparse and patients are stable. We watch Gossip Girl and order DoorDash. Those times are the most memorable,” she says.

Our closeness with our parents first bonded us in Miami. “My parents and I talk to each other and joke as friends,” she says.

We fall into discussing matchmaking and the pressure to find a partner. Something common in both Indian and Jewish culture. “What is your current stance on it?” I ask Zeenath.

“I have a complicated answer. Sometimes it can be nerve-racking, depending on who the matchmaker is, whether it’s your parents or someone else. It’s almost a gamble just how online dating is, but I feel that matchmacking takes into perspective the qualities that you’re looking for. I’m super resistant, but sometimes you never know.”

She revealed, in secret, that she had recently been seeing someone new whom she’d met through mathmaking. “Don’t share anything about that,” she made me promise.

Months later, in June, she was engaged.

“Wherever you go becomes a part of you somehow.”

― Anita Desai

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52 Friends on Instagram

Four years ago, Michelle walked toward me on a street in our neighbourhood in Miami. She was a friend of a friend who was joining my friend Phoebe and me for an event.

Michelle complimented my skirt. One I had ordered specifically for the occasion. Then and there, our friendship began.

She invited me to a potluck, a night out, and we went to a taco night. Always, with a camera in her hand, hoping to build her career as a photographer. At the end of 2022, she took photos of me in her downtown Miami apartment.

We’ve spoken on occasion since then. I twice visited a psychic at her recommendation. Now, in New York, two and a half years later, we reconnected.

Michelle transitioned to working full-time as a photographer. She’s been featured in Vogue and Forbes, and as a result of our West Village shoot, on my business website.

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To fully catch up, we sat on a bench outside an ice cream shop.

“What’s the best part about living in New York?” I ask her about her move.

“If I didn’t have to make money, I would move back to Miami in a heartbeat,” she says. “I prefer Miami for the weather and the vibes. New York is a little crazy, and the weather isn’t great.

But the best part is that it’s really good for my business. And there are so many people to meet. So many people to work with. And so many opportunities. So it’s worth it to live here. I’m still learning to love the lifestyle. It’s hard to compare to Miami.”

I forgot, for a moment, when we began chatting, that Michelle is actually a New York native, having grown up on Long Island—just 35 minutes from the city on the express train.

“Do you feel like you have a supportive community here?” I ask.

“Yeah, for sure. I will say my biggest support system is my boyfriend who I live with. But I also have a lot of my close friends and cousins here. I never really feel alone. And I feel like a lot of people do feel alone in the city, so I’m lucky that I have that because I probably wouldn’t live here if I didn’t,” says Michelle.

“I also think it is a great city to make new friends, because everyone is really open,” she makes sure to add.

“Same boyfriend. New Job. At what point did you decide to take photography full-time?” I reply after.

“Four months ago. In March, I went full-time. It got to the point where I was working two jobs at once, and it was really overwhelming. And I was making a little bit more doing this than I was at the other job, so it just made sense to quit that job and pursue this full-time. It’s been really great and I’ve been able to support myself off of it, which is awesome,” says Michelle.

She explains that most of the new friends she makes are through work because of her busier schedule. Fellow photographers. Something I can relate to as an entrepreneur.

“Do you ever get overwhelmed by your work or feel imposter syndrome?” I ask.

“Every time I shoot, I have a little bit of imposter syndrome. I try to get out of my head and into my body and shift into the creative parts of my brain. I do have enough experience at this point to trust that I’ll get the job done, and I’ve never had an unhappy client, so I have to focus on the facts.

A lot of the time, I’m doing something for the first time, whether it’s a different location, space or people. So there is always a little bit of newness that I have my ways to cope with,” Michelle clarifies.

I clearly remember a conversation we had in January 2022 in my apartment in Miami. Over tea, I shared my Julia Roberts theory on dating. The idea that some women don’t necessarily need an equal in a relationship, but someone who will let them shine (i.e. the reason Roberts’ first marriage is often cited as not working—competing and uncomplementary leads).

“What do you think made your long-distance relationship work?” I ask Michelle. For the early years of her romance, she lived in Miami, and her boyfriend lived in Philadelphia.

“A lot of patience. Trust that we were going to figure it out together, even though we didn’t know how—communicating what I wanted because it came down to a certain time when I shared that we needed to be in the same city for it to work. So having boundaries,” she says. “But also having patience.”

“I focused on the positive of having my own time at such a young age. I think if I were older, I would have had less patience, but I was 22, 23, 24. Honestly, I regret the times that I was upset he wasn’t there because, in hindsight, I could have had good times. We always planned our next visits and never spent more than two weeks apart.”

Michelle and I walk toward the same subway stop at the end of our hangout. I’m going uptown, closer to the Gemological Institute, and she’s going downtown.

We acknowledge that a friendship, especially one in its early days, relies heavily on being geographically close to someone. And that maybe if we had both lived in the same place at the same time, we would be close friends.

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Loren and I met on Zoom in early 2021. I was 23 at the time, and she had recently started her first business called The Commons. It was an online education company that allowed students to enter or accelerate their careers in tech. Its charm? A focus on mentorship and community.

During the pandemic, Loren successfully created a lively and authentic learning space. One that serendipitously led me to respond to a Slack message in The Commons group about helping a startup founder with his marketing, which led to me becoming friends with said founder, who introduced me to my friends in Miami. A bit confusing, maybe, but the takeaway was that meeting people or networking didn’t have to feel transactional—it could be friendly and mutually beneficial.

That was Loren’s goal after all.

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Today, as always, I consider Loren exceptional. She’s well-spoken, graceful, and gives reasonable and encouraging advice. A year ago, I called her to ask if 52 Friends made me look like a loser. “Why?” she asked, confused. “Anyone who thinks that is a loser.”

Unafraid to be challenged, her company, The Commons, was acquired in 2023. Since then, she’s become a mother to two daughters, and in the summer, we met for coffee while her six-week-old daughter Rosie slept in the stroller beside.

“Having a newborn is lonely,” she admits. Explaining that it’s because of the all-consuming nature of caring for a baby. “I do have a lot of help, though.”

Loren is glad she was able to raise funding and experiment with business before having kids, but shares that her priorities have shifted. “There are a lot of great businesses that would allow me to be a leader in the community and generate stability for my family. That’s what I’ve been looking into,” she says.

“I’ve always seen you as someone optimistic. How do you maintain that optimism?” I ask.

“That’s interesting because I wouldn’t consider myself to be optimistic. I think I’m realistic. Unfortunate things happen to everyone; that’s part of life. It happened to me,” she says, alluding to the sudden passing of her father in 2020. “Obviously, we need to take the time to heal, but it’s important to move on.”

“Being realistic means knowing that it’s smarter to look at the good things to come,” I expand. “And being grateful for what we have.”

“When something happens, the friends who are there for us, those relationships grow,” she says.

“How have your friendships changed now that you’re a mother?” I ask Loren.

“I was never the kind of person who had one best friend, but we spend more time with friends who have children, and those who don’t, those friendships have stayed the same,” she says.

Her eldest daughter, Mikaela, who is only two, has a best friend at daycare named Ava.

“If we buy something for her, she’ll say, ‘and one for Ava.’ They’ve told us it’s rare for children this young to have such close friendships,” says Loren.

A sign of her intelligence. Like mother. Like daughter, I assume.

“I’m excited to see Mikaela and Rosie’s friendship develop as sisters. I have a brother, and there are certain topics that I think only sisters can talk about. Even mother-daughter relationships are different, there are some things you don’t tell your mom,” says Loren.

“I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but I always knew the woman I wanted to be.”
― Diane Von Furstenberg

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52 Friends on Instagram

Dear friend,

A great deal has happened over the past few years. First, my adult life began. This month, on September 15th, I picked up the keys to my first office. My opening party was today.

I should mention, I’ve had a career change. For less than the last two years, I’ve built a jewelry business called Simon & Gloria. In the spring, I spent time on 47th Street in New York at the Gemological Institute of America (GIA). It’s there, in the stores that fill the Diamond District, where I observed the socially healthiest people.

Self-proclaimed as uneducated, men primarily, who from Monday to Friday sit close to one another in their booths selling watches, or trading diamonds, or doing something that could bring home money. Their conversations follow similar patterns.

“You bother me more than my wife.”

“Why can’t you do anything right?”

“You know, you’re my friend, I love you.”

I bought a watch, the largest luxury purchase I’ve ever made for myself, from a father-and-son business at the start of the street. “Miriam, are you married?” the father asks me with a smile.

“We’ll pay you more for her,” he tells my dad, who is with me. His son looks away.

“Are you going to stand here and think about work your entire life, think about yourself, Arthur?”

Mostly, I admire them, all of them. I glance through the store window at the corner of 47th and 6th Avenue to catch glimpses of the father-son duo anytime I pass by.

I made new friends at the GIA. The classroom setting tends to lend itself well to that. My friend Michelle from Miami moved back to her hometown and photographed me one day in the West Village—I use the photos to promote my business.

You must understand, friend, when I began writing this blog, I was much different from who I am now. I wrote from my kitchen table in Miami and then from my bedroom in Toronto as if it were my life’s calling to understand loneliness. I wrote, trying to understand how to make love.

Friend after friend, I’d ask questions to satisfy my own cravings for thoughts that preceded my life’s experiences. What made up love? Does love in its many forms teach us how to love romantically? Why are we setting boundaries instead of trying to be more compassionate with our friends?

In December 2022, I shared an indulgent post on LinkedIn about my mental health and 52 Friends. Luigi, my former university classmate, whom I barely spoke to, reached out ot me and became friend #10.

December 19, 2022… How it started…

We met for coffee the first week of January 2023. A Starbucks at an equally convenient location, where we shared secrets, and he admitted that I knew more than 99 percent of the people in his life.

Between then and now, the new chapters of our lives began. We became friends. Luigi met his lover, Sophia. I built a business and created their engagement ring.

He proposed on a trip to Newfoundland last week. I find it funny that through this project and life’s own whimsy, I became part of such a momentous occasion in his life.

September 9, 2025… How it’s going…

My mom asked me the other week, as we set up my office, what my takeaway from 52 Friends was.

I replied by explaining that there is no shortcut to the time and care needed to cultivate genuine friendships, but that to find close friends, we may need to meet many people—especially in adult life.

Candidly, I find that the friends I’m closest to are not even the ones that I have been the most compatible with throughout my lifetime, but those who value my friendship as much as I value theirs—or rather those who prioritize friendship as much as I do. This fact itself creates compatibility over time.

52 Friends also shaped me into the woman I wanted to be. Before the project, I felt like I walked at the outer edge of a circle, scared to fully be myself. As I met people, I gained insight into new perspectives, and people became less scary.

I used what I had learned about relationships to build a community in my personal life, but also to build my business, as it is at the core of everything we do. Community is the basis of growth.

You may have noticed that, following the conclusion of making 52 friends, I went back and forth about what to do with this blog. I knew I wanted to keep writing. A book was on the table.

It felt premature to keep going because I needed time to build my life. To figure out my career. To grow up a bit. I’m still friends with or remain in contact with many of my original 52 friends. This year, as I repeat the project, I’m excited to catch up with some of them, to make new friends, and to reach out to lost connections.

I’m sure my work will feel different in a good way. As a writer, I know that I document the human condition, but as a human, I’ve learned that there is no how to make love.

In 2018, as an exchange student at the University of Strasbourg in France, I enrolled in a course called Luxury Brand Marketing taught by a man named Claude. “If you remember one thing from this course, please let it be to watch the movie In the Mood for Love,” he said.

I obliged his request years later. The film, a co-production between Hong Kong and France, tells the story of two people whose spouses are having an affair with each other. Even though they are falling in love, the two can’t allow themselves to reach the same level of betrayal.

They never do more than brush hands. It’s considered one of the greatest romance films ever made.

Months ago, in the kitchen, I had an argument with my parents. “You analyze everything and take everything in life so seriously,” I said.

“But we’re happy,” my mom replied. “Maybe we do, but we’re happy and we have a good relationship.”

In September 2023, when I published my 51st and 52nd friends, my parents. I began at the top with a line that has come to mean more and more to me, “To my friends, you are the loves that have made all love possible.”

It is because of the love of my parents, my brother, my extended family, and, of course, my friends that I’m able to understand love.

To another year of exploring it.

Love,

Miriam

“There are days, months, endless years in which nothing happens. There are minutes and seconds that contain the entire world.”

―Jean d’Oremsson

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To protect the identity of this person, names and some other small facts have been changed.

Like many Eastern European women, Karina hid face until I got to know her.

“How are you keeping?” she’d say. An expression she picked up during the 17 years she lived in Ireland. A place she spoke fondly of as it’s there where she raised her two daughters, worked in medicine, and accumulated her assets.

We met because of my work. Karina loved jewelry, and I sold it—allotting herself a monthly budget for gems, she’d pick out a few pieces that I’d present. Eventually, we sat for coffee before any transaction to talk business or relationships.

She was blunt. I remained private. We were conducting business after all. Once I let it slip that I was Jewish, a fact I wasn’t sure would be accepted.

“I was promoted to the head of cardiology,” she says during one of our encounters.

Openly proud of her career, Karina arrived in Toronto only a few years prior but rose through the ranks at a large hospital, working long hours while ensuring to buy rings that could slide easily through latex gloves.

It’s spring, weeks ago, when she reminds me why I began writing about people.

“How was Mexico?” I ask of her recent trip.

“Beautiful. My partner and I go to the same place every year,” she says, continuing to explain that they were held up at the airport upon arrival due to his Iranian background.

“It’s not the first time this has happened. He had to serve in the Iranian army when he was young, like all men at the time, but it has nothing to do with who he is,” she says. “He’s been in Canada for over 30 years.”

“How long were you held for?” I reply.

“For hours,” she says.

Karina met her partner within weeks of immigrating to Canada in 2017. “I have a friend who jokes that he found me as I stepped off the plane. But I’m busy, and he agrees to my conditions so our relationship works,” she says.

By 'conditions,' she meant that he agreed to live separately, as she was usually busy with work and had no time to cater to his meal requests.

Months prior, Karina made it known to me that she’d set up multiple couples. “The guy I was thinking of for you just got engaged. I went to speak to him during one of my shifts and then realized he’s getting married,” she says. “Do you care if the person is Jewish?”

“Not as much as I used to, as long as he accepts that I’m Jewish and will want a Jewish family,” I say.

“Jewish families are very close,” she says.

“My parents have a very traditional marriage, so I’m just coming to realize there are many different types of relationships,” I explain.

“It’s important to meet people, otherwise you won’t know that different ones exist,” she says. “Before I met my ex-husband, I had one boyfriend who was my neighbour. Then I met him, we married and moved to Ireland with our daughters. And there, he became a devout Jehovah's Witness. His life became consumed by the church, he met a woman there, and he and I divorced.”

“That’s why I came to Canada. He took the house, and his new wife didn’t want our daughters living with them. So I bought them a two-bedroom apartment. In cash,” she makes clear.

“I remind myself that he is nothing,” she says as she gestures her hand toward the ground. “That house is all he’ll accomplish.”

I always idealized the “boy next door” trope—meeting young, maybe at school, the library or a friend’s birthday party. When that never happened, I was disappointed, but putting pressure on meeting a certain way and meeting young has its obvious limitations. I could have met the wrong person or someone who would have held me back.

“My partner now is the only person I know who puts up math problems on YouTube and solves them. I can talk to him about any subject,” she says.

“Was he ever married?” I ask.

“No. No marriages or children. He’s a nice man. We have some cultural differences because he can be old-fashioned in his thinking, but he takes me out and we go to parties. We meet people. He showed me a new side to life,” she says.

“Were you upset about the end of your marriage?” I ask innocently.

“Of course, I was very upset. I was very upset,” she repeats. “But I poured myself into my work, and I kept going.”

I admire Karina’s candidness and can tell that she enjoyed our conversation.

“Actually, I’m Jewish too,” she admits. “My mother was Jewish, but she was adopted by a Christian family during the war, so we never followed anything.”

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My first post with Mr. Shaw, friend #19, was on February 19, 2023.

It’s a Wednesday evening. Mr. Shaw and I are sitting at a table in the middle of a downtown Toronto Vietnamese restaurant. In our two-year-long friendship, this is the only time I've made the trip into the city for him—he usually drives up to suburbia.

“We should avoid the pork,” he says as if to be aware that he is dining with a Jewish girl.

“I don’t really follow the rules,” I reply.

We’re dissecting a quote inspired by Anthony Bourdain’s conversation with President Obama in Vietnam. The two are slurping Pho when the latter says, “You don’t make peace with your friends, you make peace with your enemies.”

“Do you agree with it?” asks Mr. Shaw.

“There are friends I’ve had who weren’t there for me when I needed them. I don’t consider them my enemies, but for my well-being, I like to pretend they don’t exist,” I say.

He laughs, leaning to the side of the table.

I explain that I have an ex-friend I know I’ll see at a wedding in Paris in June, and I have no desire to rekindle our friendship or go beyond shallow conversation, but to me, that is peace.

“You don’t think people can change?” replies Mr. Shaw.

“I think I’ve seen enough of this person, and she wasn’t there for me when I needed her. And so why do I need her friendship when I’ve spent the last few years building new ones?” I answer. “But I do change my opinions on things all the time.”

Mr. Shaw brings up a quote by the Dalai Lama, “Our enemies are our greatest teachers.” He then reflects on his friendship with a former teaching colleague. “After AppleJohn died, I didn’t see myself being friends with him because the three of us would usually go out together. But he reached out and I thought, ‘Why not? I know I’ll have a good time.’”

“I’ve been dumb the last few years,” I admit.

“Why?” says Mr. Shaw almost seriously.

Because I was upset by the fact that the person or people I wanted in my life weren’t who I needed them to be when I had other people who were. At 21, when I got into a car accident on the way to see a boy who years later became my boyfriend, I was disheartened by his lack of support in the hours that followed—but my father was there. My father immediately dropped his work, got into the car, and met me at the collision centre. He waved his arms as I drove in so that I could see him.

At 25, in Miami, during a depressive episode of panic and despair, my brother booked a flight to the city to help me pack my belongings for my return to Toronto. During that same period, my friend Adriana called me every day, and once I was back home, she spent any of her free time with me.

“Every single day she’d think of something for the two of us to do. And she listened to me speak about the same nonsense over and over again. So I was never alone. I was simply focused on earning the loyalty of people who never deserved my company in the first place,” I say.

“Wow!” says Mr. Shaw with enthusiasm. “That’s so cool. What a shift in perspective.”

We admire my discovery. It is profound and meaningful—a beautiful lesson to appreciate the people around me.

“Most of what I was upset about is just a question of generosity,” I say.

“Generosity of spirit,” says Mr. Shaw.

“Yes,” I reply.

The friendliest people I know are generous with their time and energy and even with their money. “I’m not talking about buying Gucci, but they offer what they can, whether that’s coming to a dinner party with their hands full or offering to get a coffee,” I say.

Previously, in dating, I’d judge someone by their job, thinking that would be an indicator of their generosity. “Now I don’t. It has no correlation,” I add.

“That’s a big change,” says Mr. Shaw.

“Generosity is very irrational. It doesn’t make sense for a man to run off the plane and get flowers for his lover. Or for him to go out of his way to pick her up.” I say.

“Right, that’s just part of joie de vivre,” Mr. Shaw says.

“I would never see it as a big deal to travel a distance to meet someone I cared about. It’s pleasurable and joyous,” I say.

“An adventure,” he adds.

I’ve learned that if you’re generous, find people who are also generous to spend time with, or you will be taken advantage of. They’ll ask themselves, “What is her motive? From whom does she steal her time? Why does she occupy herself with silliness?” And then your own identity will begin to confuse you.

Our dinner, on a weekday after work, is a sign of my former history teacher’s own giving spirit. Over the last two years, we’ve met every few months to discuss ideas. The unconvenationality of our friendship adds depth of thought to our conversations.

“Your last few posts, they’ve been repetitive,” he says.

“I know, I know. I just think I’ve run out of things to say. My project was really led by mania. It was escapist, and now I feel a lot calmer. And more ready to meet someone,” I say.

“More ready than a year ago?” he questions.

“Maybe. Not that I think you can’t grow with someone. Of course, I’d hope to continue growing once I meet him,” I say.

“Some people might think ‘Has she moved on?’” he says.

“I hate that expression,” I reply quickly.

“Right,” says Mr. Shaw understandingly. “It almost implies forgetting the past when our past makes us who we are.”

“I’m also not even sure what it means,” I say. In October 2022, and after my romantic relationship ended, I went to visit my friend Davida in Dallas, I told her that to help myself get over it, I’d take another lover.

“She assured me it was a terrible idea, and I’m glad I listened. But still to help me move on, I positioned myself correctly to have a brief romance with an Armenian-American named Michael. We kissed on the first date. It didn’t help me move on at all.”

Mr. Shaw, who met his second wife in his late 30s, acknowledges that he may not have had the sensitivity necessary to build his relationship if he hadn’t gone through divorce.

“I completely understand the feeling of ‘when is this going to happen,’” he says. “Before I met Susie, I went on a trip to Southeast Asia and in the evenings, I remember longing for a companion.”

“I know that when it happens, it will feel like I haven’t waited at all,” I say.

“That’s right. I’m sure many people would love to be in your position,” he says.

I must recognize that I’ve experienced great successes over the last few years—with this blog, my jewelry business, and most importantly, with cultivating a wonderful and supportive friend group.

“If I had stayed in Miami, I would’ve been a loser,” I say. “My life would be small and focused on the wrong things.”

“And you’d be influenced by what someone else thinks is right,” Mr. Shaw adds.

“I pressured myself with expectations, to meet someone by 23 and be married by 27. Did you ever want children?” I ask him.

“It was never something that was important for me. If I had been with someone who wanted a kid, then I would have had one. But it was never a priority,” he says.

The French existentialist philosopher Simone de Beauvoir, who had many views on love, described authentic love as one where both lovers walk side by side, giving without self-loss—a respect for each other’s individual lives. This freedom to be at peace is the most authentic of loves.

“The roles of men and women are so different now in relationships that it confuses people,” I say.

“That’s so true. In my first marriage, I did all of the cooking. Now, every morning, Susie uses an old family recipe to make me donuts. She brings it to me with coffee and cuts up apples for work. Someone looking at this from the outside must think we’re out of the ‘50s, but she does these things because she enjoys it,” he says.

“I think part of my problem now is that I mainly spend time in suburbia with 50-year-olds,” I say.

“And you came down to have dinner with a 60-year-old,” Mr. Shaw replies.

“And still, after all this time,
The sun never says to the earth,
"You owe me."

Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the whole sky.”

―Hafiz

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I’m in the car with my father when his friend, Nick, calls. “I really appreciate you and I respect you,” he says as I listen over the speaker in the passenger seat.

Nick is thanking my dad for delivering a birthday gift to his house. The two exchange words, and I, the observer, make mental notes of the conversation.

As we continue our drive, my father asks me, “The dinner you went to the other night, how did you meet the host?”

“I ran a book club about two years ago and met a girl named Sidra who now hosts dinners with her friend Isabel,” I answer.

“It’s interesting how you meet people,” he says.

It’s been two years since the first Toronto Star article highlighting my work with 52 Friends was published. I often refer to a comment someone left on the post: “I’d like to see an update from Amdur five years from now.” 

When I started writing 52 Friends, the stars were aligned in my favour. Living alone in Miami for the first few months pushed me to meet new friends on apps or at events. Friendships that I had the time to cultivate with a bohemian schedule that revolved around amusement.

In Toronto, and by friend #10, Luigi, I completely dove into the project. I met someone new or reconnected with someone I knew at least once a week. Sometimes documenting the conversation here and other times, not—striving to capture a unique perspective or experience with each person. Many of the close friendships I built or rebuilt throughout that year were never featured but are ones I cherish.

With my project also came an incredibly cool media storm that slightly overwhelmed me—especially since I was healing from an unpleasant period. Sometimes, I wish to re-do interviews as the woman I am now because I feel more secure in my identity. Regardless, I am happy that the post-pandemic world made us more comfortable admitting and talking about loneliness.

At 25, and in my naivety, I believed that my window to create meaningful friendships had passed. Two years from then, I feel lucky that I was able to prove myself wrong.

Just three weeks ago, friend #3 Zeenath visited Toronto from Florida. We caught up over coffee at a downtown café and discussed many of the topics that built our friendship: matchmaking, family, and travel. 

Two weeks before that, I spent the weekend in Ottawa with friend #45, Violette. We went skating on the Rideau Canal and later had dinner and a casino night with our mutual friend. I feel like I’ve known her for longer than I have. No subject is off the table in our conversations and her vibrancy and intentional communication style inspire me.

I’ll see friend #5, Lilian, in New York later this month, maybe friend #24, Zainab too. Friend #19, Mr. Shaw and I are coordinating a morning coffee for sometime soon.

Needless to say, I meet many of my friends from the project regularly. Candidly, I’m focused on having fun within these relationships.

Building a friendship inevitably takes time, but I’ve accepted that it’s important to befriend people who value friendship in the ways I do. Everyone is busy. Everyone has commitments and obligations, but I hope, rather I know, that even when I’m married with children, my friends and I will be there for one another and maybe sneak away for Sunday brunches.

Over a year ago, I informally chatted with clinical psychologist Dr. Miriam Kirmayer when I described making friends and prioritizing friendship as a lifestyle choice. “I haven’t heard it being called a lifestyle choice but that’s interesting. Usually we focus on mindset,” she said.

Though I feel fulfilled in my relationships, I find it cowardly when one rejects the possibility to connect with someone new. We never know what an introduction or invitation means to someone and I refuse to dismiss the possibility of new connections. Every few months, I host potluck dinners and make a point to invite acquaintances who may enjoy the social gathering—why not?

For Valentine’s, friend #53, Gina organized a girls’ lunch at a delicious restaurant. We mixed friend groups and expanded our circle as a result.

I drove, friend #50, Diana home, explaining to her that I feel pressured to keep writing my blog weekly. “You reached your goal. Write when you have something to say,” she assured me.

Recently, my book has been my priority. To properly share my thoughts, and exemplify growth, I knew I needed enough time to pass. Certain relationships had to play out and I let go of others. I desired to discover and rediscover lessons on identity, vulnerability, empathy, acceptance and generosity. It will cover about four years of my 20s.

A coffee with friend #12, Christi, weeks ago, solidified that I have a story to share. One of love and friendship.

I’m planning to spend the summer deep in writing.

Talk soon!

Miriam

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