The Bus Is Where It Starts Going Places

Maybe you found us at Plant Bingo. Maybe it was Bookish Bingo, or the Book Bus, or a friend who dragged you somewhere and refused to explain. However you got here — you’re one of us now. That part’s done.

So this isn’t a “come meet us” letter. You already did the brave thing. This is about where it goes next.

Here’s what I’ve noticed: the women who end up with real friendships aren’t the ones who came to the most events. They’re the ones who kept ending up in the same rooms until a familiar face turned into her person. Friendship at our age isn’t chemistry. It’s repetition. It’s showing up again before the busy, tired version of you talks you out of it.

And the room that does that best is a bus.

I know how that sounds — “deep friendship, now boarding” is not a perfume ad. But a bus is a small room with the doors closed and somewhere to go. For a few hours you can’t fold laundry, can’t answer one more email, can’t “just quickly” do the thing that eats an hour. You’re off the hook, shoulder to shoulder with someone, snacks being passed by the woman who brought an unhinged amount “just in case.” That’s where the real conversations happen. Sideways. Easy. Accidental.

And here’s the part I’ll say out loud: the bus is going somewhere bigger than the itinerary. Day trips become weekends. Weekends become a group chat with a name too inappropriate to print. And the horizon — the whole reason I’m building this — is a passport, a plane, a table set for us somewhere none of us have been, with women who three years ago were strangers arguing about the playlist. International retreats are where this is headed. Not a fantasy. A plan.

You don’t have to picture the whole staircase to take the next step. You’ve already climbed one. Come get on the bus — that’s where it starts going places.

Bring snacks.