Out of the Blue, Right on Time On: The magic of spontaneous reconnections and the neighborhoods that never leave us

Some friendships don’t fade — they hibernate, waiting for the perfect moment to bloom again. Brandy Wimmer (@rise_upstudios) and I go way back: sorority sisters, bridesmaids, co-conspirators in laughter and late-night talks. Life took us to different coasts, different rhythms. But every so often, the phone rings. No warning. No agenda. Just Brandy’s voice, and suddenly I’m home.

We talk about everything and nothing — creative projects, parenting wins and woes, the latest heartbreaks and breakthroughs. Her California life is vibrant and bold, mine is layered and evolving. But in those moments, we’re just us. No filters. No performance. Just two women who remember who they were and fiercely love who they’re becoming.

Brandy and I are November babies--autumn souls born into the season of golden light and quiet turning. Every year, when the leaves are nearly gone in Tennessee and the grapes are being harvested in California, I know we will be wishing each other happy birthday. It's a rhythm as reliable as the seasons.

We're both a little hypochondriac, so our birthday calls often begin with the latest "maybe-something" we've Googled too many times. But they always drift into the real stuff: the chaos and the beauty of life, the joy and the exhaustion of raising our daughters, the small triumphs and the quiet heartbreaks we've carried since the last call.

Still, it's not just the birthdays that matter. It's the unexpected phone calls--the ones that come out of nowhere, when one of us just feels the other. Those are the ones that bring a smile to my heart. They remind me that friendship isn't always scheduled. Sometimes it's just a voice on the line saying, "I thought of you."

That same kind of magic found me again on a quiet weekday, in the most unexpected way.

I was raised just one county over from where I live now, and every few months I return for a dermatologist appointment. Afterward, I always treat myself to a little ritual: a stop at Dairy Cup — my childhood haunt — followed by a slow drive through the neighborhood that raised me.

This was the kind of place where kids rode bikes in packs from sunup to streetlight. If my dad wanted me home early, he’d blast an air horn and I’d come running. Mom made Kool-Aid. Dogs and kids ran free. It was wonderful.

On this particular drive — not long after my dad passed — nostalgia hit me like a wave. I passed our old house, where our first dog is still buried, where live Christmas trees were planted year after year, and where I broke my arm not once but twice in that infamous driveway. Each house I passed held echoes of slumber parties, Girl Scout meetings, pool parties, and playmates I hadn’t seen since middle school: Diane, Charity, Renee, and Cathy.

By the time I got home, I was flooded with the need to reach out. So, I did. I Facebooked those childhood friends, unsure if they’d even remember me. But they did. And they were just as eager to reconnect. We all had daughters (some had sons too), and we all shared the same fond memories of a neighborhood that shaped us. Our reunion — decades in the making — was joyful, grounding, and surprisingly easy. We’ve met up again since and stay in touch more often now.

These moments — the “out of the blue” calls, the Dairy Cup detours, the Facebook messages sent on a wave of memory — remind me that connection doesn’t always need consistency. Sometimes,

it just needs intention. A spark. A voice saying, “I thought of you.” And that’s enough to reignite the whole flame.

So here’s my reminder to you: whether it’s childhood playmates frozen in your memory as kids, or college friends who knew all your pre-social-media shenanigans — reach out. You never know what kind of magic might be waiting on the other side of a message.