According to cinema and television, women are constantly forming incredible female friendships. From Steel Magnolias to Bridesmaids, Sex and the City to The Golden Girls, these are the kind of friends you can rely on to get you through the hard times – you laugh, they laugh; you cry, they cry. The only thing you have to figure out is: are you a) the clever one, b) the sexy one or c) the funny one? And yet, for years I had been searching for my own tribe, to no avail. I met every new opportunity with openness and enthusiasm, sure that my forever best friends were out there somewhere if I just looked hard enough. My search was just taking a little longer, I told myself. Even Thelma had Louise. It was only as I reached my mid-40s that I realised that might never happen. In reality, I’m a lot more like the characters in the European arthouse films I like to watch (on my own) than the Hollywood fare I grew up on. When I see family and friends post pictures of baby showers, hen parties and birthday celebrations, I wonder why my own camera reel looks so radically different. Scroll through my social media and you will find shots of speciality coffee, documentaries about human rights abuses and the auditoriums of old theatres. For decades, I tried making my interests social, in the pursuit of finding my tribe. I organised group theatre trips, coffee dates and baby cinema with women I sort of got along with, but lasting bonds just didn’t form. I wasted hours fretting about my inability to be irreverent, until I realised it simply isn’t in me. I’m not the person who will turn up on your doorstep with ice-cream when you break up with your loser boyfriend – I’m probably the person who told you to leave him six months ago. I had always struggled to find my people. In my 20s, I made several attempts at friendship with the other women on my floor in my semi-corporate workplace. But when it came to Friday drinks, they didn’t invite me. Was my water-cooler chat dull? Had I been watching Big Brother for nothing? I didn’t understand their aloofness, but later found out it was because they didn’t like the way that I dressed. Another office full of women yielded slightly more promising results when they invited me along to a Kylie Minogue concert. Unfortunately, our girl group disbanded when I was promoted at work. Kylie was a harbinger of sorts: solo careers sustain (Beyoncé, Madonna) while ambition in girl groups can trigger a split (Sugababes, Destiny’s Child). In my 30s, it was mum groups – pregnancy yoga, baby sensory and the group WhatsApp. Surely all that oxytocin and sleep deprivation would bond me to some other women? I did plenty of downward dog, but, ultimately, I just didn’t click with anyone. Aside from complaining about not eating sushi or blue cheese for nine months, we didn’t have much to say to each other. Now that I’m in my 40s, with two children under the age of five, a part-time PhD and a to-read pile that might crush me if I don’t make a start on it, I really can’t be bothered to waste any more time trying to fit a mould that was made for others. I’m done enthusiastically replying to WhatsApp messages with hearts or smiley faces in an effort to spark a friendship. I’d much rather sit solo with a quality cuppa, or wander around an art gallery on my own. Still, not having that group of women to laugh and cry with has made me feel I am missing out over the years. Maybe I couldn’t find them because I’m not fun enough? Maybe I’m not worth investing in – too weird, or worse yet, boring. Invasive thoughts like these hit us all, but I can’t offload them to my girlfriends, or drown them out with Friday night drinks and dancing or group hugs. Instead, I sit with myself, often surrounded by silence. And I write. Sometimes it is lonely, but ultimately, I’m OK with that. Tara Judah is a film critic and writer