The Power of Sisterhood and True Friendship — and What It Looks Like

Inga and I met under the unlikeliest of circumstances. We were both brown-skinned immigrant women (she was born in Kenya, I was born in Trinidad) trying to survive in a deeply conservative Amish Mennonite community that neither of us truly belonged to. She had asked, “Is there anyone else like me here?” And someone pointed her in my direction.

The night we met, I was in a recliner, recovering after one of my many surgeries. I was stitched up, swollen, emotionally frayed. I was guarded. Years of hurt had taught me to be cautious. I’d been burned by friendships that only accepted curated parts of me, never the full truth. I wasn’t used to showing up as my whole self — it hadn’t been safe.

But that night, something shifted. As soon as we began to talk, it was like my soul exhaled. I felt seen. Understood. Known.

My husband at the time peeked into the room, saw us laughing, and asked, “How long have y’all known each other?”

We’d just met hours ago, but it felt like a reunion. I took a photo that night and captioned it, “My Sister From Another Mister.” Something in me knew she was going to become a sacred part of my life.

Sometimes We Just Need to Be Seen

During my treatments, people showed up in practical ways — helping with meals, childcare, and errands. And while those were all deeply appreciated, none eased the ache inside me.

What I needed was someone who didn’t try to improve my situation or fix me. Someone who didn’t rush to find silver linings or hand me platitudes. I needed someone who would just sit in the dark with me. Inga became that person.

She understood the pain of feeling invisible — not just as a breast cancer patient, but as a Black woman in predominantly white spaces where people claimed they didn’t “see color.” I’ve always said that if you don’t see color, you don’t see me.

That silence? It can feel like another kind of diagnosis.

I Needed a Sister, Not a Savior

I have a trauma history that taught me to isolate when things get hard. When I’m overwhelmed, I tend to disappear. Not because I don’t care, but because it feels too heavy to be witnessed.

Most people let you go when you retreat like that. Some call down from the edge of your pain, saying, “I’m here if you need me,” while keeping a safe distance.

But Inga? She climbed into the pit with me. She didn’t try to pull me out or fix me. She just sat there, heart open, holding space. She was a presence, not a project manager. A sister, not a savior.

We developed our own language for this: tentacling. It meant we could feel when the other needed us, even from miles away. When the tentacles were reaching, we knew it was time to check in — even if the texts went unanswered, and even if the calls went to voicemail. We just kept showing up.

That’s what real friendship looks like. She saw me — the full person, not just the diagnosis. She addressed my emotional and cultural needs, not just my treatment and practical ones. She cried over me. Fought for me. Celebrated me.

What She Healed in Me

Inga’s friendship has helped me rebuild my trust in people, in sisterhood, and most importantly, in myself.

I used to blame myself for every friendship that ended. But I’ve learned that some people are meant to be in your life for a moment, and others are meant for a lifetime. And both can be beautiful.

Before Inga, I didn’t understand the power of sisterhood and true friendship. The kind that says: I’m not going anywhere. The kind that still sees you when you’re not showing up as your best self — and doesn’t flinch. She taught me what it means to be loved without condition. To be known and not rejected. To care for my body as something sacred, because someone who loves me reminds me that it is.

For the One Still Waiting

If you’re reading this and you feel like everyone left you during your hardest season — I want you to know: There is still hope. Keep your heart open.

I’m not saying you should trust everyone. But stay open to the ones who come in softly, slowly, with kindness in their hands.

Some friendships won’t last forever. Some won’t go deep. But one might. One might come in the middle of your storm — and stay for all the seasons after.

You are never too broken to be chosen.

Never too complicated to be loved.

Never too late to be found.

We are all carrying our own heavy stories. So be kind. Love deeply. And check on your “strong” friends — the ones who may still be healing in places you’ve never seen. We are so much better when we remember that. So much better.