Friendships Forged in the Fire

How struggle, and shared stories shape bonds that last

Yesterday, I had the loveliest lunch—just in a simple cafe, but with very special friends. The kind of friends who know the deepest parts of your story because they walked through their own fires at the same time.

Our friendships were born in the hardest of places. Years ago, when my own mental health was faltering and my son Isaac was in the grip of suicidal thoughts and school struggles, I didn’t know which way to turn. I found myself in the online Parenting Mental Health PMH Facebook community. I was at my wits' end. At first, I stayed silent—watching, listening, too shy and too raw to admit what was happening in our home. How could I possibly put words to something so painful?

But little by little, courage grew. I began to share. I joined online chats. Eventually, I discovered a handful of people who lived close enough to meet in real life. Slowly, strangers became acquaintances, acquaintances became friends.

Yesterday, as we sat together around a table, I was struck by how far we’ve all come. Each of our children is in a better place now. The relief was bigger than the biggest words I have. The chaos, the tears, the long nights were another life away. Now here we were, together in the calm after the storm.

The image that comes to mind is from the TV show Forged in Fire. (Never heard of it? Check it out. It’s strangely compelling.) In it, bladesmiths heat metal until it glows, hammering and shaping it again and again. Fire, pressure, and persistence create something strong and beautiful—something that doesn’t break when tested. That’s what these friendships feel like. Forged in fire. Made to last.

And isn’t that the perfect picture of friendships formed in adversity? The folding and refolding of shared stories, the hammering of hard days, the repeated reheating of courage and kindness. What could have been brittle becomes flexible. What could have been ordinary becomes patterned with unexpected beauty. Like Damascus steel, with its flowing, water-like designs etched into the blade, our friendships bear the marks of all they have endured. Every fold, every layer, every trial adds to the strength. The fire that once threatened to destroy has instead created something resilient and enduring—a bond that is not only strong but strikingly beautiful, its very pattern shaped by the journey we have shared.

“Damascus steel — beautiful, isn’t it? Strength and beauty, fire and pattern.”

C. S. Lewis once wrote:

“Friendship is born at the moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’”

That moment of recognition—that spark of me too—was the beginning for us.

Miranda Hart captures it in her gentle, funny way in her latest book, 'I haven't been entirely honest with you'. She writes about how the old saying “A problem shared is a problem halved” used to irritate her. She thought, quite reasonably, that sharing problems just meant spreading the difficulties out. I felt that way for years. But experience taught me differently. As Miranda beautifully puts it:

“The fear of our situation can lessen when we see that experience being held in gentleness and kindness by another.”

Yes. That’s it. When someone holds our story with kindness, the burden eases. The fire still burns, but it doesn’t consume us.

I know this firsthand. After my friend’s suicide, I stayed silent for too long, keeping my grief and trauma hidden. That silence deepened my wounds. Learning to be vulnerable—to risk sharing—has been a long journey. But yesterday, looking around that lunch table, I could see the fruit of that risk: golden friendships.

So here’s what I want to say, especially if you are standing in the fire right now: be brave enough to let someone know it burns. Be honest about the struggle. You might be surprised by what grows from that moment.

Because sometimes, out of the fiercest flames, the strongest and most beautiful bonds are forged.

Friendships brewed in the fire, savoured in the calm.