In Spanish, my mother tongue, the word for friendship is Amistad, which derives from the Latin amare (the act of loving). Indeed, to me friendship is not just a noun, but rather a movement, an atmosphere or feeling that covers you and safeguards you. Friendship is also change – it is to welcome and let go, to accept and refuse, it is a unique kind of joy and sometimes it can be grieving too.
As a migrant, friendship becomes even more expansive, not just an atmosphere but a universe. A constellation of stars that watches gently over you. It is also unpredictability, newness, attempts to connect and disconnection, decisions that separate us and bring us closer. Above all, it is the family we don’t have nearby. When I left my country, one of the biggest sacrifices I had to make was leaving behind my friendships, my amistades – the people I had grown up with, that saw me become an adult, cry, laugh, fall in and out of love, those who for decades were by my side, unconditionally.
I cannot tell you the special kind of loneliness one feels when moving to a new country. Leaving Mexico and landing in Scotland came with excitement, adrenaline, curiosity. But when the novelty wore off, it gave way to routine. And in the gap between arriving in Scotland and trying to make it a home, I needed friendships as much as I need water to exist. As migrants, we often arrive alone, with no family or friends, no community or connections. It would be impossible to measure the effort that it takes to build these, but I can tell you it is heavy and it can come with a lot of disappointments and self-doubt.
However, I don’t want to talk about the friendships that never were, but the ones that are.
It was a few days before my 37th birthday when I found myself in hospital. No one ever imagines being hospitalised, but living through this moment in a different country with family so far away is even scarier. Lying in bed with the remains of a fever, I thought about my partner having to bear the entire responsibility of looking after me. Of the fact that having my family close was only possible through video calls. And how in a moment so scary as being on a hospital bed, all I wanted was to feel never ending warm embraces telling me I was going to be OK.
When I woke up the next day, my phone was full of messages:
Nat, how are you? I heard you’re in hospital, if you need anything, please let me know. Honestly, anything you need.
If you need someone by your side, I can come by. I can take the day off and stay with you.
I am coming by right after work. I am thinking of you and your recovery, please let me know how things are.
These were the words from people who have been in my life for years, but also those who I had met a few months ago. They were from people who have busy lives, who were away travelling or were working their nine-to-five. People I usually see once a month in my dance and book groups, as well as those whom I see every week. No matter how we met or how often we had seen each other, they were there, holding my hand, being my chosen family. Very soon, my room was full of friends who listened to the ups and downs of being unwell, they took me out for walks around the hospital, filled me with flowers, told me stories of hope and courage, looked after me as I fell asleep with pain, and kept in touch once I was back in my own home.
It is true that friendships are like plants, they must be nurtured and looked after so they can continue to exist and thrive. And when you are new to a country, you have to sow connections carefully, allowing them to grow and develop. Giving them time and attention so they can bloom in full. I never expected to be surrounded by so many new and old friends while in hospital. Yet, a moment that could have felt incredibly lonely showed me how deep the connections we’ve made actually are. Like roots extending deeper and sturdier so we can hold ourselves strong in this land. It was then that I realised, I have grown a beautiful garden of friends.