Paper Straws and Empty Chairs: The Painful Search for Real Friends in Hollywood

I sat at a table by myself, stirring my drink with a paper straw that was dissolving faster than my patience. The empty chair across from me felt like the punchline to a dad joke I hadn’t signed up for. And I love a good dad joke. The brunch spot was packed, and I could feel the glances. Quick looks that seemed to say, “Poor thing.” Sitting there alone, surrounded by people laughing, clinking glasses, and snapping selfies, made me feel small. Like I wasn’t enough. I checked my phone for the fifty-leventh time, and there it was:

“Hey boo!”

The dreaded text. The one that translates to, “I ain’t coming, my bad for telling you 45 minutes after we were supposed to meet.”

It’s funny (not funny “haha,” but funny “hmm”) how often this happens. Not just to me because, yes, it was pretty often, but to a lot of Black women, especially in these Hollywood streets. In a city like Los Angeles, brunch plans are more like suggestions, and friendships? I mean genuine friendships. Well, friendships in your 30s are already hard, but in LA? Girl, that’s laughable.

This wasn’t even a friend-friend. I was meeting someone new I’d met about a week before. We vibed or so I thought. But in LA? Everybody’s somebody. A producer, an influencer, or someone “working on a project.” Making friends in Hollywood feels like auditioning for a role. And I guess I didn’t get the part.

As I sat there, picking at my salad (just kidding. It was french toast, turkey sausage and eggs with cheese), I kept thinking about how I had failed again. This was the eighth time this had happened. Eighth. Time.

And there I was, feeling like a whole nobody.

The tears came before I could stop them, quick blinks at first, then a steady stream I tried to hide behind my sunglasses. I kept asking myself, Was it me? Did I smell funny? Was my small talk enough? I mean, what am I supposed to say about the weather? It’s sunny 90% of the time! And oh my God, I really hope I don’t smell! The spiral was spiraling.

In a desperate attempt to find my tribe, I tried friendship apps. Whew. If you want a humbling experience, try making friends through swipe culture. Half the profiles read like résumés: “Yoga enthusiast. Vegan. Working on a pilot.” The other half ghosted you or felt like I was going to end up on a missing person’s flyer. 

And the networking events? Chile, worse. Forced laughter. Fake interest. Everyone scoping the room for someone more “valuable” to talk to. Nothing felt real. All for show. Like everyone was networking for an opportunity, not looking for genuine connection.

I even thought I had found my tribe in a writer’s group. I was trying to volunteer on their sets, inviting them to mine. But then came the comment that knocked the wind out of me:

“You need to go find your people.”

Find my people? I thought y’all were my people. It instantly gave “I am NOT your people.”

That one sentence sat heavy. It echoed the same feeling I’d been carrying: I don’t belong here.

And finding like-minded people who get you? Sis, that’s a whole mission. It’s not just about finding friends. It’s about finding safe spaces. Spaces where you don’t have to explain your hair, your slang, your tone. Where you don’t feel the need to soften yourself to make others comfortable. The layers of code-switching, microaggressions, and unspoken rules in Hollywood make it exhausting. 

Sometimes it feels like a balancing act. Smile, but not too much. Don’t want to seem fake. Be confident, but not too confident. Don’t want to seem arrogant. Be ambitious, but humble. Don’t want to intimidate. And when you’re one of the few Black women in the room, you can’t help but wonder: Do they see me? Or do they just see what I can do for them? It’s like being invited to a party but realizing you’re there to serve drinks. You’re visible but not seen. Present but not valued.

I blamed myself for a long time. I would cry, thinking something was wrong with me. I even blamed my absentee mother for not teaching me how to socialize. I kept replaying every failed brunch, every flaked plan, every dismissive comment. I kept asking myself, What’s wrong with me? Why did I feel so uncomfortable in these rooms? But here’s what I figured out: 

I needed to find me first.

How could I want people around me when I didn’t even want to be around myself? So I did something radical. I started dating me. I took myself to the beach solo dolo. Had dinner by myself. “Table for one, please.” Went to the movies alone. And yes, people looked at me like I was weird as I cried when Mufasa died in the love action version, but who cares?

In those quiet moments, I learned to love my own company. I learned that I didn’t need a brunch date to enjoy a good mimosa (but I did need an Uber). And slowly, very slowly, I stopped feeling like I needed to prove my worth in a city obsessed with status. Friendship in Hollywood isn’t impossible, but it’s layered, especially as a Black woman. The journey taught me that the first and most important friendship you’ll ever have is with yourself.

Through my solo journey, I finally discovered what friendship really means. I stopped hiding behind small talk and surface level conversations and chose to be vulnerable, to share my struggles, dreams, and fears when it felt right. And you know what? The right people stayed. I also had to stop comparing my current friendships to the ones from my 20s. Back then, it was all about turn ups and constant check-ins. Now? I’m all about depth over frequency. A meaningful coffee chat beats a night out where I feel invisible.

My favorite discovery, though, was the power of reconnecting with old friends. Reaching out to people from positive points in my life brought a kind of joy I didn’t know I needed. Those reunions reminded me of who I was before Hollywood’s expectations tried to tell me who I should be. Sometimes, the best friendships are the ones we already had. All they need is a little revival.

If you’re on this journey too, here are a few good reads by Black women that really spoke to me and might just speak to you, too. All About Love by Bell Hooks is a must. It dives deep into love in all its forms, especially the kind we need to show ourselves. Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde, my favorite, offers powerful essays on identity, community, and connection reminding us of the strength in being seen and heard.

Then there’s More Than Enough by Elaine Welteroth, which is like a pep talk for the soul, reminding you that you are already enough, just as you are. And finally, What We Lose by Zinzi Clemmons. A beautiful exploration of loss, identity, and relationships that’ll stay with you long after you turn the last page. And Audible is okay. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise :)

So here I am again as I write this. One empty chair, one drink, and one stupid dissolving straw. I’m all for saving the environment but I have limits. This time? I’m not mad. That “Hey boo” text isn’t coming because I’m not on a journey to find them anymore. Just to find myself. Phone is currently on DnD. 

Friendship is hard. Friendship as a Black woman in Hollywood? Even harder. But here’s the truth. It’s not impossible. The real key is simply finding you first. You have to be the friend you’ve been waiting for. When you show up for yourself, the right people will show up for you. No friendship apps or forced small talk required.