I’m the People People Mean When They Say “I’ll Have My People Call Your People”

There’s a moment in every woman’s life where she realizes—without fanfare, without warning—that she is the cavalry. The logistics team. The emotional support dog. The executive assistant, unpaid intern, crisis negotiator, snack provider, and motivational speaker. And for me, that moment came in the form of a text message from a man who was arguably one of the most connected dads in New York City.

“My people said I should call your people to set up a playdate.”

Sir. I am my people.

And not just in the tongue-in-cheek, “LOL I’m doing it all” kind of way. I was literally texting back with fingers still sticky from cutting fruit and Googling how to get dried slime out of a bath mat. This wasn’t some formal arrangement either. Our daughters had been real friends for years—tight, like second-home level tight. One of those beautiful, long elementary school friendships where five-day “playdates” just naturally evolved. Sometimes she’d stay with us, sometimes mine would stay with them, and nobody blinked twice. It was easy, it was joyful, and it came with unexpected perks—like the occasional, “Hey, we’re on set today. Want the girls to swing by?”

And they would.

I’d do the drop-off like I always did—swinging by set the same way you’d grab milk from the fridge or reach for cereal in the morning. It was that casual, that normal. My daughter would hop out, happy as can be, off to laugh her way through a day in a soundstage wonderland while I peeled off in a haze of errands, deadlines, and figuring out what the hell to make for dinner.

I never stayed. I never had time.

I was always the dropper-off-er. The behind-the-scenes facilitator. The one keeping the trains running on time with a smile and a to-do list so long it needed its own zip code.

And somewhere in that ordinary, absurd moment—texting with a Hollywood producer while wearing mismatched socks and half-damp hair—it landed:

I’ve always been the people.

Not just for my daughter. For everyone.

I’m the one who remembers the appointments. Who packs the snacks. Who signs the permission slips and knows where the lost hoodie ended up. I’m the one who creates the magic and cleans it up afterward. I’m the one who holds the world together with a hair tie and a half-used roll of duct tape.

I’ve never had a partner pay for my gas. Or offer to handle the groceries. Or say, “Babe, you rest—I’ve got this one.” After my husband died, there was no relief pitcher. No stand-in. No bench. It was just me and the kids and a life that refused to pause.

So I didn’t crumble. I recalculated. I built a life from the rubble. I wore strength like a uniform and grit like perfume. I didn’t have a choice—I became my own Plan A through Z.

And the wild thing? I got really, really good at it.

I became efficient, dependable, unshakeable. I raised kind, funny, incredible kids. I paid the bills, made the memories, and somehow—despite it all—never forgot picture day.

And then I walked across the country.

No, literally. I walked from one coast to the other. Solo. With a chariot named Gertrude and a heart full of stories and purpose. Because of course I did. That’s what “the people” do.

And people clapped. They called me strong. Brave. Inspirational.

But you know what they didn’t call me?

Tired.

Because when you’re this good at showing up, no one thinks to ask if you want to sit down.

Being “the people” is both an honor and a heartbreak. It means you’re trusted. Reliable. Rock solid. But it also means you’re rarely asked, “Hey—do you need anything?”Because everyone assumes you’re good. You’re always good. You’re the one everyone else leans on.

But the truth?

Sometimes I want to lean, too.

I crave companionship. I crave partnership. I crave someone who doesn’t just admire my independence but sees through it—sees the girl who’s always been the drop-off parent, the one who never had the luxury of being late or lost or held.

I don’t need rescuing.

I need witnessing.

I need someone who shows up not to fix me but to walk beside me.

I need someone who doesn’t say “Let me know if you need anything,”

but says, “I’m already on my way.”

So yes, I’m the people. I’ve always been the people.

And I’m damn proud of that.

But here’s the part I’ve been rewriting lately, quietly, fiercely:

I’m not just the people anymore.

Because something’s shifted.

Maybe in me.

Maybe in the universe.

Maybe in the frequency I’ve started tuning into—the one that no longer calls in projects, but partners. No longer attracts saviors, but equals. People who know how to hold, not just be held up.

I feel it. I see it.

The way real companionship is already folding itself into my life.

Soft and steady.

Respectful and safe.

And yes, deeply loved.

I’m not waiting anymore—

I’m receiving.

So go ahead.

Have your people call my people.

They’ll still reach me.

But these days?

I might just be holding someone’s hand when I answer.

And this time…

It won’t always be mine.