On the Edge of the Herd: Friendship in Midlife

The other day, I was watching Jewel.

Jewel lives alone not because she wants to, but because she is a lover, not a fighter. We’ve tried her in herds, but she’s gentle and sensitive, and doesn’t have much interest in pushing back. At 25, with a few health considerations, she doesn’t have the same drive to fight for her place the way younger or more dominant horses do. So for now, she has her own paddock.

But every day, she gets to roam the ranch. And every day, I notice the same thing: she follows one of the herds on the periphery. Not quite joining. Not fully separate. Just… nearby. She’ll graze a little behind them. Pause when they pause. Move when they move. Watching. Hoping.

It reminds me of a child on a playground standing close to the group, not sure how to step in, quietly wishing the “cool kids” might notice her and make room. And if I’m honest, it mirrors something rising  in me too.

When Community Shifts

In midlife, friendship changes.

When we’re younger, connection is often built into the structure of our lives. Jobs. Shared interests. Children. Mom-and-baby groups, school drop-offs, book clubs, and birthday parties. Community forms almost without effort.

Looking back at my years in Victoria, so many of my friendships were woven through my daughter-mom and babe running groups, music and yoga classes we attended together. Life felt interconnected, even when it was busy. Then life interrupted in ways I hadn’t planned for.

A series of personal challenges, including a move back to the city which was followed closely by the pandemic, shifted my focus inward-toward healing, regrouping, and simply getting through. And somewhere in that season, the scaffolding that had once held my sense of community quietly fell away.

When I moved back to Vancouver, I didn’t rebuild community right away. Some friends had moved on. Others were rooted in lives that no longer aligned with mine. And truthfully, I’d never had a large circle to begin with. I’ve always been a bit of an oddball who was more comfortable with animals, with quiet, with depth.

The horses were my constant. They still are. But humans need humans too.

I don’t think we talk enough about how lonely midlife can be.

When children are grown.
When relationships end or change.
When careers shift.
When we move cities or reinvent ourselves.
Suddenly, we can find ourselves without a clear place to belong.

Women need women. Our nervous systems regulate through one another. Our hearts soften in the presence of shared understanding. Our souls remember themselves when witnessed by other women who have lived, lost, and loved deeply. And yet, making friends as we age can feel more complex.We’re often busy caretaking, working, healing, or starting over. Friendship becomes something we intend to return to-once there’s more time, more stability, more space. And in the meantime, we hover near the edges.

What moves me most about Jewel is not that she stands apart. It is that she keeps showing up.
Every day, she leaves the safety of her paddock.
Every day, she walks toward the herd.
Every day, she stays close enough to belong, even if she’s not fully inside the circle yet. There’s courage in that.
Watching her has gently challenged me to do the same.

This year, in this new home and new chapter, I’m setting a quiet intention:
to ask.
to reach out.
to say yes when connection feels possible.

To invite someone I sort of know for a walk or a tea.
To join new groups
To risk a little awkwardness in service of belonging.

Not forcing friendship.
Not chasing approval.
But allowing proximity.
Allowing time.
Allowing relationships to form at the pace they’re meant to.

Jewel is midlife too. Some would say she’s older. But she’s curious and engaged-still attentive to the world around her, still willing to approach connection at her own pace. She hasn’t given up on belonging. She simply approaches it differently. Maybe friendship in midlife isn’t about forcing our way into the centre of the herd but about finding those who notice us on the edges and choose to walk alongside us.

And maybe, over time, that’s more than enough.