Here’s a confession hotter than a churro at Disneyland: I don’t really have close friends. I’m that girl who smiles for selfies but secretly knows the exit map better than the menu. My walls have been up so long they’re practically a national monument — and when somebody tries to get close, my reflex is to push them away faster than a bad dick pic in the DMs.
It started back in high school. I had a best friend — older, cooler, basically my teenage soul twin. I thought we’d be at each other’s weddings, our kids would be besties, we’d do matching Christmas pajamas. Then she met Weed Girl. Weed Girl smoked, I didn’t. (If it’s your thing, cool — but not mine.) Slowly my bestie drifted into clouds of smoke and out of my life. She chose weed, I chose boundaries. It felt like watching your soulmate run off with Snoop Dogg and a lighter.
That moment carved a trench in me. My brain went, “never again.” From then on, acquaintances were fine, but deep friendships? Nope. I built a moat, hired dragons, and put up a neon sign that said “No Vacancy.” Years later, my ex-best friend was strung out, surviving paycheck to paycheck. My heart broke. I still pray for her, but our lives are galaxies apart.
Fast forward: my husband is in prison, I’ve moved to L.A., and I’m a social-media introvert who gets paid to be extroverted. My fur babies are my therapy team, my events calendar is my enemy, and my social battery dies faster than my iPhone on 2%. Life without friendships is lonely. Even my cats look at me like, “Girl, download Bumble BFF already.”
Then came an invite I didn’t expect: James Bartholet’s birthday party at Disneyland. My first thought: “Nope.” My second thought: “Christy, get your ass out of the house.” So I went. I rode rides. I hung out with my friend Tia Kai — one of the few people who’s consistently in my corner — and for the first time met Priya Rai. She was warm, funny, and totally easy to talk to, and James was the ultimate host. It felt good. Like oxygen.
The next night I threw Marica Hase her birthday party at Barton G’s with Lucky Starr who is a sweet friend. (If you’ve never been, it’s a bougie fever dream of oversized cocktails and theatrical desserts. Even the shrimp look like they’re in Cirque du Soleil.) For the first time in forever, I stopped thinking about work and just… hung out.
Being a #PrisonWife in L.A. taught me something: my walls are not protection, they’re a prison. And I don’t need another prison in my life. I’ve decided it’s selfish to hide behind my walls. My calling isn’t just to shock people or make them laugh — it’s to bless people. And you can’t bless people from a bunker. It means opening my hand even if it risks being hurt. Because people will hurt me. They’ll misunderstand me. They’ll probably gossip. But Jesus did all of that and still hosted dinner parties.
So here I am, walking this out, healing one awkward social interaction at a time. Hold me accountable. If you see me retreating into my shell, DM me and say “Get your ass out of the house, Christy.” Because healing isn’t just prayer and therapy; sometimes it’s saying yes to brunch.
My heart is still delicate. My walls are still tall. But my purpose is bigger than my fear. And I can’t live my calling hiding behind a velvet rope of loneliness.
Thank you for reading my true story. Thank you for being my Lovers. Whether you love me or love to hate me, you’re still my Lovers. And Jesus loves you — and so do I.