Have you ever heard that if you want to know who someone truly is, you can get a good approximation by averaging the five people closest to them? Although this might not be strictly accurate, it reveals an important truth: the friends we keep deeply influence who we are, how we think, and how we live. Good friendships can shape the entire course of our lives—not only in who we are today, but in who we will become and in our eternal destiny. Having good friends who share our values can ground and inspire us. The Romans had a saying for this: idem velle, idem nolle—”to want the same things and to reject the same things”—and in those friendships, we find a strength to face anything.
In my freshman year of college, I faced this need for strong, shared-values friendships firsthand. I was used to being surrounded by my family, my siblings, and lifelong friends who shared my faith and values. But when I started college, I struggled to find that same support. I searched for Catholic groups or even just random Catholic people who might be willing to build a meaningful friendship with me. I don’t know if I didn’t search hard enough or if there simply weren’t any at my last school, but I felt alone. Despite this, I held tightly to my principles, knowing they were a precious treasure, though often feeling isolated because of them. By being faithful to my beliefs and living what I thought was a normal life, I was sometimes labeled a “radical” or “extremist”—which ended up pushing many people away.
The loneliness became harder to bear. Remembering my old friendships made it worse because I knew what it felt like to have such good people around me. But I had forgotten the One who was my true foundation, my best friend, Our Lord. Because my strength wasn’t rooted in God but in my own willpower, I began to weaken. I used college as an excuse to focus only on classes and reduced my spiritual life to just Sunday Mass. My connection with God weakened and became an occasional memory rather than a living, daily relationship. Without realizing it, I began to live my faith more out of habit than genuine devotion. And at the first opportunity to sever this habit, I did.
By the end of the year, my faith was barely visible in my daily life. I no longer dressed to reflect my values, no longer wore my scapular, and no longer prayed before meals. I began making friends who didn’t share my values, thinking I was strong enough to be faithful on my own. At first, nothing seemed to change. But that summer, when I went back home, I felt the difference. Being with family and friends who shared my faith made me realize how much I missed it. I was determined to be more open to new friendships and experiences the next year, though I didn’t want to admit that my principles and my desires were contrasting. And I ultimately let my desires win.
Sophomore year began with a decision I would later regret: I convinced myself to be “free” by ignoring the boundaries of my faith and locking me in the chains of sin. I went to my first party. Everyone was drinking, and when my friends offered me a drink, I accepted, not wanting to be “rude.” The initial drink—that was “the only one”—was followed by “just one more” and finished as me drinking more than I should, and my memory becoming unreliable. I remember flashes—feeling my head heavy, throwing up, friends trying to keep me awake. The next morning, I promised myself I would never do that again. But as soon as the physical pain faded, so did my resolve. The cycle began—party after party, a false freedom that left me feeling empty.
In this cycle, I had what I thought I wanted: friends and parties. But despite all this, the emptiness inside me grew. I asked my friends for advice, and they told me the only thing they did that I hadn’t: I was “missing love.” They described love as fleeting passion and physical connection. And in my lost state, I believed them. But pursuing this kind of “love” only left me more broken. The relationships I fell into didn’t heal my emptiness; they deepened it.
By mid-year, I was living a hollow life. My weekends were an endless loop of partying, regrets, and attempts to distract myself from the pain I didn’t want to acknowledge. My long weekends would begin on Thursday nights. I’d go to some party, drinking with the hope that maybe, by downing every glass, I could somehow fill the emptiness I felt inside. The next morning, I’d wake up feeling awful, with foggy or nonexistent memories—but with enough stories to brag about and entertain the friends I’d made along the way. Friday nights meant hitting a bar after school, only to end the night crying on the way home, raw and vulnerable. The alcohol peeled back the layers I tried to keep hidden, making me face feelings I didn’t want to confront, and in that exposed state, the sadness would pour out in tears.
Saturday nights, I’d always find something to do, some place to be, someone to spend time with—anything to keep myself from being alone with my own thoughts. I couldn’t bear to face the judgment of my own conscience, which I knew would find me guilty. And then, on Sunday mornings, I’d go to church, sitting there in front of the altar, listening to the priest, and becoming fully aware of my faults. Yet, without truly grasping the depth of love or mercy, I assumed God would always be there to forgive me. I became a slave to my passions, expecting God to be at my beck and call, to forgive me without question, to be the one I leaned on but never truly listened to.
Easter was approaching, and though I was living a miserable life, I didn’t want to experience Christ’s resurrection without being able to receive His body in the Eucharist. After enduring one of the lowest weekends of my life, I called my sister to hear her plans for Easter, and she told me she’d be attending Mass daily. Her dedication inspired me to seek confession, and she encouraged me to attend Mass at least from Thursday to Sunday. That week, God had mercy on me, calling me back as He did the prodigal son.
On Thursday, I went to Mass, intending to confess beforehand. I arrived early, but the line was long, and the priest couldn’t finish hearing all confessions before Mass began. During the homily, he said, “As Jesus washed the feet of those men, He is prepared to wash away every sin we have committed. He doesn’t care about the horrible things you’ve done—He just wants your conversion, your sorrow, and your love.” I cried through the entire Mass, finally feeling the weight of my guilt and God’s mercy. Afterward, there was an hour of adoration, and I stayed, hoping for the forgiveness I so desperately sought.
When adoration ended, I asked a nun where the priest was, wanting to confess. She told me he had already left. I felt abandoned, hurt that God didn’t seem to be there when I needed Him, reflecting my flawed view of Him as a servant who would come to me on demand. Feeling abandoned, I sat in front of a statue of Mary and poured my heart out to her. I told her about my loneliness and my mistakes, and for the first time, I realized that I had never been alone. She and her Son had been there all along, guiding me back from the edge. I let my tears fall freely—tears of guilt, sorrow, and gratitude for their mercy. In my despair, I asked Mary for the grace to go to confession, and miraculously, just as I was about to leave the church, the priest returned. I was finally able to confess and feel the forgiveness I had been yearning for. Mary, my friend and mother, had interceded for me, and Christ, my truest friend, embraced me in forgiveness.
I knew I couldn’t let myself stay in that situation for two more years. I was sad and desperate, feeling like nothing I did made a difference. I decided my best option was to start fresh—to give myself another chance and do things right. So, I applied to transfer to other schools. While searching, I found Boston College. Learning it was a Catholic school created a thought that maybe, by going back to the faith that once meant so much to me, I could begin again.
When I was accepted, I knew I couldn’t make the same mistakes again. As soon as I arrived at BC, I went to the club fair, looking for any Catholic groups. I found a table for “The Sons,” where I met a guy that later would become a good friend and that pointed me toward GP and to a traditional Catholic group on campus. It turned out to be a community that would inspire me deeply. I met people who lived their faith openly and without shame, modeling gentleness, patience, and devotion to God. Their example encouraged me to embrace my faith and reminded me of the joy in living it fully. Instead of drifting from God, the friendships I was building drew me closer to Him.
But challenges didn’t disappear. There were still moments of loneliness. Corrupted memories of “the good old days” would resurface, tempting me to slip back into old mistakes. This time, however, I had people by my side who made all the difference. In a weak moment, feeling tempted to drown my worries in partying and drinking, I went to a friend and told her what I was struggling with. I admitted I was tempted to go back to old habits in hopes of finding happiness. She listened without judgment, offering advice that reminded me of Mary’s comforting presence. She urged me to resist, gently reminding me I’d regret it later. Her response was full of understanding, not judgment. She didn’t try to suppress my pain but helped me bring it to God, to Mary, instead of running away from it. Through her actions, she showed me the love of God, making it easier to face the hard times with faith and hope, rather than fear or despair. She reminded me of the beauty of idem velle, idem nolle, of having friends who shared the same loves and rejected the same wrongs.
Good friends are a gift. A true friend brings us closer to God and cares about our soul as much as they care about our happiness. Jesus teaches, “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” I am grateful for the friends I have found here, for the community that has given me a second chance. Good friends remind us that we are not alone and that God is present in each one of them, guiding us closer to Him, helping us all move together toward our ultimate goal: a life that leads to heaven.
- The Power of Good Friendships (and the Danger of Bad Ones) - December 9, 2024