By Daily Mail (U.S.) | Created at 2026-08-13 05:07:40 | Updated at 2026-08-13 06:13:10
1 hour ago
Nerves. Awkward small talk. Ghosting. I had hoped all that rubbish was behind me when I married my husband.
As it turns out, making new friends as an adult is just as embarrassing and strewn with potholes as dating was in the throes of youth. But I may just have succeeded in making my first new pal in years. I’m excited, of course, and convinced I’m going to ruin it like I always do.
I’ve been hunting for a ‘mum friend’ ever since having my first child four years ago. My own mother insisted that I must form a gaggle with other fledgling matriarchs if I was to survive without going mad, and it seemed like reasonable logic.
Easier said than done, however, in my case. I’m a chronic introvert, for one thing. I don’t get lonely or miss people when I’m by myself – those Covid lockdowns were utter heaven for me, living in the countryside for more than a year with only my dog for company.
I’ve touched upon this before, to the great ire of many feminists but I find women particularly difficult. They’re tricky to read, often fake and regularly duplicitous in my experience. The majority of friends I have held on to over the years tend to be eccentric men.
I’m also impatient, with no tolerance for mundane chatter, and I’m autistic, so I’m not particularly good at pretending otherwise. I’m well known among my peers for wandering off mid-conversation and I never, ever say goodbye to anyone before ducking out of parties.
In short, I’m not great friendship material. My far-reaching graveyard of failed kinships, as I approach the age of 40, is a testament to that. The only female I ever truly adored and felt comfortable around, Claire, ditched me after a decade of being best friends, and nine years on I still miss her every day.
Annabel Fenwick Elliott says she is impatient, with no tolerance for mundane chatter, and autistic, so she says she's not particularly good at pretending otherwise
Annabel says she often finds other women tricky to read, fake and regularly duplicitous
It’s a tale as old as time. The balance shifted irreparably when she got engaged to her boyfriend in our late twenties. We went from being besotted with one another in equal measure (daily phone calls, handmade cards, weekends spent together) to a very lopsided situation where I was still single with all the time in the world, and she was settling down with nothing left over to spare.
I clung on desperately until the bitter end because she was all I had. She grew increasingly distant because she didn’t need me any more. Eventually I just annoyed her.
Every woman I have met since fails to measure up to Claire – I can tell within minutes of talking to them. I’m like a forlorn, grumpy Heathcliff, destined to roam the moors alone and unfulfilled forever.
So I’d somewhat given up hope, until I met Pippa at my son’s birthday party last month.
Most of the mothers I’ve met thus far have scared me. They’re all so judgmental. I know this because I do it too. I judge women who let their babies ‘cry it out’ at night. I judge mums who don’t breastfeed. I judge them if their children are fat. It seems probable that they’re all judging me back.
Anyway, Pippa seemed different from the moment she introduced herself. Firm handshake. Sunny disposition. Genuine smile. Impeccably behaved daughter. I had invited everyone from my four-year-old’s nursery class, so there were plenty of new faces. I could feel some of them give the side-eye, but not Pippa. So I did something I almost never do: I suggested a playdate.
I was suitably nervous before she turned up at our house again a few weeks later. Uncharacteristically, I put make-up on, and thought quite hard about my outfit. Who did I want to portray myself as? The sort of mum who wears jeans and a nice-ish top, I decided. I never wear jeans and nice-ish tops, for the record.
I resisted the temptation to serve wine, for the purposes of Dutch courage (it wasn’t yet noon), but I did invent a false afternoon engagement so that if the conversation was awful, I had an excuse to bail. Happily, I didn’t need it.
I was relieved to discover that Pippa swears, still co-sleeps with her daughter, is wary of the same kids (and parents) in our children’s class and likes animals enough to not eat meat. All encouraging attributes. She reminds me slightly of Claire – in that she is blonde and bubbly and very easy to talk to; all things I’m not.
So now comes the tricky part. How do I further this friendship without seeming desperate? That was, in essence, how I lost Claire. How much of my true self do I show her at this point?
What when she finds out that I don’t actually wear jeans and nice-ish tops, but rather go about my day with wild hair, dressed in weird Victorian-esque nightgowns? Should I avoid talking about politics? That’s a sure-fire way to lose a friend these days, if you’re even remotely Right-wing.
I know in the depths of my soul that I will never find another Claire – someone I can talk to about absolutely anything, who makes me laugh hysterically and who is effortless to be around – the odds are just too low. But I think my mother is right about forming allegiances with other mums who are in the trenches.
I shall move with caution when it comes to Pippa. Our next engagement is a bank holiday trip with the children to play with some goats and alpacas at a local sanctuary. Perhaps if I brush my hair, wear normal clothes, don’t confess that I like Elon Musk and Rupert Lowe, and pretend to be nonchalant about our burgeoning friendship, everything will be OK? Wish me luck.
Names have been changed.
