We Don’t Ride Alone: A Reflection on Male Friendship

Some friendships fade away, while others remain steady. A few surprise you by going deeper when you least expect it. This is a reflection on male friendship, vulnerability, and showing up for the people who still matter.

The first time I saw this, I was instantly transported to my childhood.

There are a handful of memes circulating on social media, such as the one in the photo, featuring boys on bikes, quiet streets, and a haunting caption: “At some point in your childhood, you and your friends went outside to play together for the last time, and nobody knew it.” 

I've seen this meme in various formats throughout time, and it always resonates.

That was me and my childhood friends, liberated on two wheels, with the whole world ahead of us. Then, in the blink of an eye, we're in our 50's. What once felt like just yesterday now feels like a lifetime ago (in reality, it is).

What started as a blank canvas fills quickly: careers, marriages, promotions, kids, cross-country moves. It builds into something beautiful. But as often happens with things that feel familiar, we stop paying attention. We stop watching. We look away.

I suppose that’s what happens. For the longest time, we’re connected by shared rhythms. We go to the same school, live on the same block, and play on the same teams. Proximity does the heavy lifting.

However, as adults, it’s different. We must cultivate, protect, nurture, and prioritize our friendships; however, most of us were never taught how to do so.

As I reflect on friendship, both old and new, I’ve come to realize that it moves in seasons.

First, there are the childhood friends. The boys on bikes. In that season, we spend more cumulative time with a single group than we ever will again. School days, weekends, summers, it’s all shared. We find each other through shared neighborhoods, teams, and classrooms. And in that everyday closeness, something lasting takes shape.

These moments start to fade with time. But the impact is everlasting.

Then come the college years. The time together is shorter, but the bonds can run just as deep. It’s our first experience building a tribe from scratch, finding our people, and figuring out who we are in the process. As scary as it can be, we usually land where we need to, at least for that version of ourselves.

Next comes the early-career chapter. Circumstance, coworkers, roommates, and neighbors often shape these friendships. They form in break rooms and happy hours, in shared commutes and entry-level hustle. They’re baked into the rhythms of work and young adulthood. Some stay surface-level, others deepen over time. A few become lifelong connections. But again, they reflect the pace and place we’re in.

Before we know it, we’re into our parenting years, which is the longest, often messiest (figuratively and literally), and most mind-bending chapter of all. As in previous seasons, these friendships begin in a shared space: preschool drop-off and pick-up, playdates, and Saturday soccer games. At first, it’s about convenience, your lives orbit the same spaces, your kids get along, and suddenly you’re spending weekends together.

Some friendships are forged through the shared misery of hunting for a little white ball for hours on end.

As our kids get older, into middle school and high school, another season emerges. These friendships are often built on sidelines and carpools, hotel lobbies at tournaments, and long weekends chasing schedules and shared dreams. You find yourself standing next to the same parents, week after week, year after year. And somewhere along the way, the conversations get a little deeper. You trade stories, support each other through injuries and school stress, and even open up about work, marriage, or aging parents.

These relationships often feel more adult, less about proximity, more about shared purpose. Sometimes, they evolve into deep friendships.

But even in this chapter, maybe especially in this chapter, friendships can begin to fade. Some unravel slowly, stretched thin by the logistics of family life, career changes, and sheer exhaustion. Others break abruptly, undone by conflict, misalignment, or silence no one knows how to name.

And when they go, it hits harder than we expect.

Because we’re not just mourning the relationship, we’re grieving the version of ourselves who felt seen inside it. The chapter of life it represented. The belief that certain bonds were

I enjoy watching the cycle continue, a new generation, forging new friendships.

unshakable.

As men, we’re rarely taught how to sit with that grief. We’re taught to move on. To stay busy. To act like we’re fine. But we’re not always fine.

Studies show that adult men report fewer close friendships than women, and that number declines as we age. We tend to prioritize productivity over connection. We hide behind sarcasm, group texts, and sports talk. And too often, we wait for someone else to make the first move.

We feel everything. We just don’t always know what to do with it.

So we tell ourselves it’s just part of life. That people drift. That not every friendship was meant to last forever.

And sometimes, that’s true.

But other times, we’re left wondering what changed. We sit with the silence, the absence, the ache of something once steady, now gone. And somewhere between grief and clarity, we begin to shift.

Maybe that’s what age offers, not just gray hairs and dad-bods, but perspective.

In this season, I find myself less focused on the number of friendships and more drawn to their depth. To the people willing to meet me in the middle of the mess. The ones who don’t flinch when life gets real.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love the sarcasm, the group texts, the sports banter. There’s comfort in that shared language.

But I also crave what’s beneath it. The courage to say, “Things are heavy right now.”The freedom to admit, “I’m not okay.” Because as time passes, those heavy moments come around more often.

Most of us were never taught how to stay connected as life changes. We know how to show up for the game, crack jokes at the barbecue, and text about whatever sport is on. However, when life becomes truly challenging, we often lack the necessary tools or language to remain present.

Now, in this season of life, I find myself wanting more. Not more people, but more presence. Friendships built on trust, not just history. The kind where you can share a laugh one moment and a hard truth the next, without fear of judgment.

My childhood friendships were forged riding bikes through the streets of our hometown. Rocco and his boys have different ideas.

That doesn’t mean letting go of the banter or the shared rituals. It just means being brave enough to go deeper when the moment calls for it.

Because real connection takes intention. And I want to be the kind of friend who doesn’t flinch at honesty. Who knows how to hold space when the wheels come off. Who sticks around for the laughs and the tears.

And that brings me back to those bikes. To the long rides with no real destination, just the joy of moving through the world together.

We didn’t know it at the time, but those rides taught us something. About friendship. About presence. About how it feels when someone’s simply beside you.

And maybe that’s what we’re still chasing. Not the past. But that feeling, of being seen. Of being safe. Of knowing we’re not riding alone.