It started as a joke. During the early days of the 2020 pandemic, my friend created a group text thread with the playful moniker, “The Real Housewives of [Our Town],” not realizing the rest of us could see the label. It was a laugh when we all really, really needed one. The group was originally intended as a way to keep in touch during lockdown, discussing topics like remote schooling, CDC guidelines, and what to do with our kids stuck at home. But over the past four years, the group has evolved into my lifeline.
I used to loathe group text threads. Whenever somebody added me to one, I immediately muted it or politely requested removal. The incessant notifications and the constant pressure to stay on top of the ongoing conversations grated on my nerves. I didn’t understand why you’d want one just for chatter. If it’s important and timely, just call me, I always thought.
Well, surprise, surprise, this particular group chat has become my sanctuary, a one-stop shop for free therapy sessions, shared laughter, venting, and community and school affairs updates. I don’t know what I’d do without it. Back when our kids were little, we could easily tote them around in strollers and baby carriers for in-person gatherings, the only obstacle being their ever-changing nap schedule. But as they got older and dove into after-school activities, sports, and other interests, finding time for face-to-face connections became trickier, especially after the pandemic shifted how we socialize.
But as life has gotten busier and more complicated as the kids age, the only time my closest friends and I are all together seems to be when we stay after school on the playground, stealing updates in fragments and half-hearing conversations. I don’t always have the right words, energy, or sense of calm to have meaningful in-person dialogue, often interrupted by bickering siblings, a barrage of questions and “look at me!” Nevermind the constant requests for snacks or water or Band-Aids. It takes more work to finish a complete thought, much less a real conversation. At the same time, I want a deep, long-lasting connection like Anne and Diana in Anne of Green Gables. The grown-up version.
Despite our best efforts to plan adult-only dinners and hikes, they frequently fall through due to illness, extracurricular obligations, and the weather. As a replacement, the group chat is a place where the scariest thoughts or moments are nestled alongside a lighthearted meme or a passionate rant. It’s a place for commiseration, celebration, and even occasional detective work as we navigate the complexities of our lives together.
Because it’s one ongoing conversation, there’s no pressure to respond immediately. It’s comforting knowing that when we have time later that day, we can pop into the chat, scroll up to catch up, dole out hearts, thumbs-ups, and “haha” reactions, and then insert our five-paragraph responses.
In Kate Baer’s poem, “Friend Text Thread,” she writes, “we are right here and / tell us the hard parts / tell us you’ll try.” The hard parts are often left unsaid when we need to be mindful of what our children overhear and are wont to misunderstand. In person, we stifle our tears and calm our nerves, putting on a brave face to reassure them we have it under control, they are safe, and we will absorb their worries.
In the group chat, the hard parts nestle in, response texts sent at 3 AM or PM, depending on what kind of day we’ve had, throwing a blanket to suffocate the growing fire of doubt, fear, or panic. Our mothers may have had knitting circles and Tupperware parties, but as life evolves, so must our social spaces. Long live the group text thread, which I promise never to mute again.
Molly Wadzeck Kraus is a freelance writer and mother of three. Born and raised in Waco, Texas, she moved to the Finger Lakes region of New York, where she worked in animal rescue and welfare for many years. She writes essays and poems about feminism, mental health, parenting, pop culture, and politics. She is usually late because she stopped to pet a dog. She tweets at @mwadzeckkraus.
