Pinky Promises
Copyright© 2026 by BareLin
Chapter 10: The Wisdom
Let me tell you something about wisdom.
It’s not something you acquire all at once. It’s not a destination you arrive at, a moment of enlightenment where suddenly everything makes sense. Wisdom is cumulative. It’s the slow accretion of experience, the gradual understanding that comes from living through things and paying attention while you do.
We’re not wise because we’re special. We’re wise because we’ve been paying attention for forty years.
And now, sitting here at Blackwood Manor, surrounded by the people we love, watching the next generation run naked through the garden the way we once did, we thought we’d share some of what we’ve learned.
Consider this our gift to you.
On Bodies
Your body is not a problem to be solved.
This is the first thing, the most important thing, the thing we wish someone had told us when we were eight years old and already learning to be ashamed.
Your body is just your body. It’s the vehicle that carries you through life. It’s not a statement, not a performance, not a reflection of your worth. It’s just ... you.
The stretch marks? They’re maps of where you’ve been. The scars? Evidence that you survived. The cellulite, the wrinkles, the soft places, the hard places, and places that don’t look like they’re supposed to? They’re all just part of the landscape of a life being lived.
We spent decades hating our bodies. Decades covering up, apologizing, trying to shrink ourselves into spaces that were never designed for us. And for what? For whom?
Freedom came when we stopped fighting. When we looked in the mirror and said, “This is what I have. This is what I am. And it’s enough.”
It’s enough.
That’s the secret.
You are enough. Exactly as you are. Right now.
On Shame
Shame is a liar.
This is the second thing, the thing we learned the hard way, the thing we wish we’d known when Tommy Richardson tried to film us in the hot tub.
Shame tells you that you’re wrong. That you’re bad. That something is fundamentally broken about you that needs to be hidden.
But shame is not the truth. Shame is just a feeling, a powerful one, a convincing one, but still just a feeling. And feelings can be questioned. They can be examined. They can be released.
The antidote to shame is being seen.
When you let someone look at you, really look, all of you, the parts you hide and the parts you’re proud of, f and they don’t look away, something shifts. The shame loses its power. The darkness recedes. You realize, maybe for the first time, that you were never as broken as you thought.
We’ve been seeing each other for forty years. And in all that time, not once have any of us looked away.
That’s not because we’re perfect. It’s because we know that shame is a liar, and the truth is love.
On Friendship
Friendship is work.
This is the third thing, the thing that surprises people most. They look at us four women who’ve been friends for four decades, and they think it must have been easy. That we must have just clicked, found each other, and coasted through life on a wave of effortless connection.
But that’s not how it works.
Friendship is work. It’s showing up when you’d rather stay home. It’s telling the truth when it’s easier to lie. It’s apologizing when you’re wrong and forgiving when you’re hurt. It’s choosing, over and over again, to stay.
We’ve had fights. Terrible fights. The kind that makes you question everything. We’ve said things we regretted, done things we weren’t proud of, and hurt each other in ways that took years to heal.
But we always came back.
Because we made promises. Pinky promises. And we kept them.
That’s the secret to lasting friendship: not that you never fight, but that you always find your way back to each other.
On Being Seen
Being seen is terrifying.
This is the fourth thing, the thing we learned on our wedding day, on that stage, in every moment of vulnerability we’ve ever experienced.
When you let people see you really see you, all of you, you’re taking a risk. They might judge. They might reject it. They might use what they see against you.
But here’s what we’ve learned: the risk is worth it.
Because on the other side of being seen is connection. Real connection. The kind that changes you, that heals you, that makes you feel less alone in the world.
When we stood naked at that altar, we were terrified. When we walked onto that stage, we were terrified. Every time we’ve chosen to be seen, we’ve been terrified.
But we’ve also been free.
And freedom, we’ve learned, is worth the fear.
On Promises
Promises matter.
This is the fifth thing, the thing we’ve known since we were eight years old, linking pinkies in a backyard pool.
A promise is not just words. It’s a commitment. It’s a choice to bind yourself to someone else, to say, “I will be here. No matter what.”
We’ve made a lot of promises over the years. Some small, some huge, some that seemed impossible at the time. And we’ve kept them. Every single one.
Not because we’re perfect. Not because it was easy. But because we understood, even as kids, that a promise is sacred. That’s when you give your word, you’re giving a piece of yourself.
The world doesn’t value promises the way it used to. People break their word all the time, walk away, and move on. And sometimes that’s necessary; sometimes promises become unhealthy, and need to be released.
But when you find people who keep their promises? Who shows up, over and over, no matter what?
Hold onto them.
They’re the rarest thing in the world.
On Vulnerability
Vulnerability is strength.
This is the sixth thing, the thing that took us the longest to learn. We grew up in a world that told us to be strong, to be tough, to never let them see you cry. We built armor around ourselves, walls to keep the world out.
But armor is heavy. Walls are isolating. And the strongest people we know, the ones we admire most, aren’t the ones who never break. They’re the ones who break and let you see it. Those who fall apart and let you help them put the pieces back together.
We’ve been vulnerable with each other in ways we’ve never been with anyone else. We’ve shown our bodies, our fears, our ugliest emotions. We’ve let each other see us at our worst.
And you know what happened?
We got stronger.
Not despite the vulnerability, but because of it. Because when you let someone see you broken, and they stay, you learn that you’re not as fragile as you thought. That you can survive the breaking. That you can be put back together.
Vulnerability is not weakness. It’s the bravest thing there is.
On Change
Change is constant.
This is the seventh thing, the thing we’ve learned from watching our bodies age, our lives evolve, our children grow.
Nothing stays the same. Not our bodies, not our relationships, not our circumstances. Everything shifts, transforms, moves on.
We’ve changed so much over forty years. The eight-year-olds in that backyard pool are barely recognizable in the women we’ve become. And yet, somehow, we’re still the same.
Because the core of love, trust, and promise has remained constant.
Change doesn’t have to destroy you. It can grow you, shape you, make you more of who you’re meant to be. But only if you let it. Only if you hold onto what matters while letting go of what doesn’t.
We’ve learned to embrace change. To welcome it, even. Because change means we’re still alive. Still growing. Still becoming.
And becoming is the whole point.
On Love
Love is the answer.
This is the eighth thing, the simplest and most complicated thing we know.
Not romantic love, though that’s beautiful. Not familial love, though that’s important. But love itself is the deep, abiding commitment to seeing and being seen, to holding and being held, to showing up and staying.
We love each other. I have for forty years. Will for the rest of our lives.
That love has carried us through everything. Through shame and fear and heartbreak. Through lawsuits and illnesses and betrayals. Through every hard thing life has thrown at us.
Love didn’t make the hard things easy. But it made them possible. It gave us something to hold onto when everything else was falling apart.
If you take nothing else from our story, take this: love matters. Find your people. Love them fiercely. Let them love you back.
It’s the only thing that lasts.
On Pinky Promises
Pinky promises are forever.
This is the last thing, the thing we want you to remember most.
When we were eight years old, we made a pinky promise in a backyard pool. We had no idea what we were promising. We were just kids, playing, being silly.
But that promise became the foundation of everything. Every other promise we made was built on that one. Every hard thing we faced was made easier because we’d promised to face it together.
A pinky promise is just a small thing. A child’s game. But it’s also more than that. It’s a symbol of trust. A commitment to connection. A reminder that we’re not alone.
So make pinky promises. Make them with your people. Keep them, no matter what.
And if you break one? Apologize. Try again. The point isn’t perfection. The point is showing up, over and over, choosing each other again and again.
That’s what we’ve done. For forty years. And we’re not done yet.
The Circle
We’re sitting in the garden now, the four of us, watching the sun set over the ocean one more time.
The next generation is inside Ellie and Lily and the others, making their own promises, building their own bonds. They’ll be okay. We’ve taught them well.
“I can’t believe it’s been forty years,” Maddie says.
“Feels like yesterday,” Marnie agrees.
“Feels like forever,” Grace adds.
We’re quiet for a moment, soaking it in.
“What do you think the next forty will bring?” I ask.
“No idea,” Maddie says. “But we’ll face it together.”
“That’s the promise,” Marnie says.
“That’s always been the promise,” Grace finishes.