The Pandemic Friendship That Found Me—and Never Really Left

(and reminded me what connection really feels like)

I still remember the exact day: July 8th, 2020.

We were deep in pandemic life—masked, cautious, craving human connection but not quite sure how to reach for it anymore. That morning, my little family decided to go out for breakfast. It was one of the first times we were allowed to eat on a terrace again, and something about that felt thrilling—like a rebellious return to normal.

We picked a spot with outdoor seating, and just as we were settling in, my four-year-old daughter, who was at the time, noticed another little girl sitting with her mom on a nearby bench. And, in classic child fashion, without hesitation or explanation, the two girls burst out laughing. Just pure joy. Unfiltered. Loud. Infectious.

Then the girl’s mom turned to me and asked, with the most casual tone:

“Do you mind if we join your table?”

I blinked.

Excuse me? We’re in the middle of a global pandemic. We can catch COVID by breathing too close.

But something in her voice was so easy, so grounded. She didn’t feel like a stranger. She felt familiar—like someone I already knew but hadn’t met yet.

So I said yes.

Turns out, they were from Australia. Temporarily living in Montreal for a couple of years. Her daughter, Libs, was just shy of four. And just like that, our girls clicked. They giggled over pancakes and crayons like they’d been waiting their whole lives to find each other.

As for us moms? The conversation was polite, surface-level. I wasn’t sure what to make of her. She was friendly, sure, but we didn’t connect. After breakfast, I excused myself and went for a run. My ritual back then. My sanity.

That should’ve been it.

But the following Tuesday, I got a text.

Clara—her name—had signed Libs up for the same gymnastics class as my daughter.

My husband had given her my number. Without telling me.

I was horrified. Mortified. Low-key furious.

But I went. Partly because my daughter wouldn’t stop talking about her new best friend. Partly because… maybe I was curious.

At that first class, Clara and I sat on a bench with coffees in hand. We chatted politely while the girls flipped and twirled behind closed doors. It was fine. A little stiff. The kind of conversation you have with someone you’re not sure you’ll ever really bond with.

But the next week?

That changed.

We ditched the bench.

We went to a bar, sat on a terrace, and ordered real drinks.

We exhaled.

We laughed.

We dropped the polite small talk and stepped into something real.

That night, we opened up—about motherhood, about isolation, about being tired and overstretched and not entirely ourselves anymore. She talked about missing Australia. 

Something clicked. Something opened.

That drink on the terrace was the start of a real friendship.

From there, everything snowballed.

Clara and I became inseparable. Our daughters became like sisters, playdates, sleepovers, matching outfits, dance routines in the living room. Mine would sleep at her house, hers at mine. We parented together, leaned on each other, and held each other up.

We built this cozy little bubble, and then T (our third mama-musketeer) joined in with her kids. Suddenly, we were a beautiful multi-family unit. A pandemic pod that became something so much deeper. Shared holidays. Sunday dinners. Last-minute outings. Tears. Laughter. Everything.

And then life did what it does.

Clara and I started to drift.

No drama. No falling out. Just distance. I was exhausted—burnt out, if I’m being honest. I didn’t have space for much beyond survival. I stopped answering texts. Stopped reaching out. Slowly, silently, I pulled away.

Then, last December, Clara and her family moved back to Australia.

It happened fast. The goodbye was quiet. There was no big finale, just a chapter that closed while we were still mid-sentence.

Our daughters kept talking—FaceTimes and voice notes—but I avoided the ache. Pretended I was fine. Buried it under work and routines and motherhood.

And then this July, they came back. For three weeks.

I didn’t know what to expect. Would we click again? Would it feel forced? Had too much time passed?

But the moment I saw them, it all came rushing back.

The girls ran into each other’s arms like no time had passed. And Clara and I? We sat down, looked at each other… and it was just there. The comfort. The ease. The friendship that never really left.

Together with T and her kids, it was like we traveled back to 2020—but without the heaviness. We cooked, we talked, we laughed until our faces hurt. The kids played like they were still that little pandemic crew. It felt like we got something back we didn’t realize we were missing.

It reminded me that connection—the real kind—doesn’t disappear. It goes quiet, maybe. It pauses. But it doesn’t die.

Sometimes, you just need a little space. A little time. And when you meet again… It’s even sweeter.

What I’m carrying with me:

Friendship doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.

Sometimes we drift. We get overwhelmed. We forget to reply. We go quiet.

But the people who matter—the ones who saw you when the world was dark—they don’t disappear.

They come back.

And when they do, they remind you of the parts of yourself you thought were gone.

This summer, I got that piece of me back.

And I’m so deeply grateful.

-Fabi