The modern world has attempted to remove all friction, an effort that has generated millions of dollars. Anything that is a bit hard? Remove it. Is hailing a Taxi or grocery shopping hard? Make an app for that. Are dating and rejection hard? Just swipe past rejection, and never endure the awkwardness again. Not to mention all the serums we can get to smooth over the textures of aging!
But here’s what the mystics knew and what every woman who has kneaded bread knows: friction is how we rise.
Think of sourdough. You cannot rush it. The starter needs time. It needs the wild yeast from the air. It needs your hands working the dough until it resists you. That resistance—that’s not a flaw in the process - it is gluten developing, structure forming. Without it, you have paste. With it, you have something that can hold its shape, that can nourish, that can be broken and shared.
Or think of pearls. A grain of sand lodges itself in the oyster’s soft body—an irritant, an invasion, deeply uncomfortable. The oyster doesn’t have the option to swipe left on this irritation. It can only respond by layering nacre over the intrusion, again and again, turning the irritation into iridescence. The pearl is the friction made beautiful.
Now lets be clear: not all friction is generative. Some irritants are injurious. Cancer is not a teacher we need. Hunger is not character-building. Abuse is not a workshop in resilience. There is bathwater we are right—obligated, even—to throw out. Some people are genuinely destructive, genuinely harmful, and leaving them is not weakness but profound strength. That’s not what I’m talking about.
We are talking about the friction we have with family members, friends, and people you interact with daily who are merely annoying, sharp, critical – abrasive in ways that grate but don’t wound. The relatives who ask the wrong questions, hold the wrong opinions, make the wrong jokes. The mother (or daughter) who criticizes your hair. The uncle who monopolizes dinner with the same stories or speeches about his opinions on religion, race, gender, or politics. Or, the sister who is bitchy and still sees you as you were at fifteen, not as you are now. How easily we slide into those old patterns.
These people—your people, chosen by fate and blood rather than compatibility—they are not the bathwater to be thrown out. They are the grain of sand. The dough that resists. The friction that has something to teach you, if you’ll let it.
We’ve gotten very good at “protecting our peace.” We curate our social feeds, our friend groups, our environments until everyone reflects our values, our aesthetics, our politics. We call this self-care. And sometimes it is. But sometimes—often—it’s just another way of staying small. Another way of making ourselves so sensitive that we can only exist in the most controlled conditions, like orchids that die if the humidity shifts by two percent.
What if your peace isn’t a delicate thing that needs protecting? What if it’s something you build through practice, through showing up to uncomfortable dinners, through sitting across from people who don’t understand you and choosing curiosity over contempt? What if imperviousness isn’t something you’re born with but something you develop, like the oyster develops its pearl, layer by layer, irritation by irritation?
The holidays ask us to sit at tables with our origins. With the people who knew us before we became ourselves, who carry uncomfortable truths about where we came from, who remind us that we are not entirely self-made. This is valuable. Not because it’s pleasant, but because it’s real. Because unconditional love—the kind that doesn’t evaporate when someone is annoying—is one of life’s most profoundofferings, and you cannot learn it by swiping right only on people who are easy.
Your family teaches you patience when it would be easier to leave. Teaches you loyalty when it’s inconvenient. Teaches you to love what is flawed and human and yours, not because they’ve earned it through perfect behavior, but because love is not a transaction. It’s a practice. And like all practices, it requires repetition in imperfect conditions.
This is the difference between comfort and strength. Comfort is the silk-smooth life, the curated feed, the friends who all agree with you. Strength is the dough that resists your hands. Strength is staying at the table when the conversation gets awkward, when your mother asks about your life in ways that feel invasive, when your cousin says something that makes your jaw tight. Strength is breathing through it, staying curious, remembering that these people are doing their best with the tools they have, just like you are.
And here’s the gift: when you practice loving people who aren’t easy, you become someone who can be loved in all your own difficulty. You stop needing perfection from yourself. You stop performing. You remember that you, too, are sometimes the irritant, the abrasive relative, the one who says the wrong thing. And that you, too, are worthy of patience and presence and the slow work of being seen.
So as the holidays approach, as you pack your bags or set your table, ask yourself: Is my family the kind of friction that harms me, or the kind that hones me? If it’s the former—if there’s real abuse, real toxicity, real danger—then staying away is an act of self-preservation and strength. Honor that.
But if it’s just annoying? If it’s just uncomfortable in the normal, human way that families are uncomfortable? Then consider showing up. Not as a martyr, not as a doormat, but as someone strong enough to let the friction do its work. Bring your boundaries. Bring your sense of humor. Bring a gummy if you need one.
And remember: the smoothest life is not the most beautiful one. The pearl is not made in comfort. The bread does not rise without resistance.
The glory is in what we give grace to. The wisdom is in the ability to participate. The love is in showing up anyway, hands in the dough, sand in the shell, building strength in a place it can be built: in the friction itself.