The greasy pole. A merciless, unforgiving beast, isn’t it? Each rung slick with desperation, every ascent a gauntlet of grit and guile. Some folks parade up it with their noses held high. I prefer to call that naïveté. You claw your way up, bruised and battered, barely leaving room for someone like you to climb alongside—or step over—you.

For me, that someone was her. Not just my supervisor. Not merely a colleague. She was my anchor in the pandemonium, the compass I never knew I needed. The truth? She saw every fragment of me—the jagged edges, the colossal blind spots, those moments I fancied myself clever but was really just… well, an idiot. And yet, she stayed.

Let’s not sugarcoat it—I didn’t make her job easy. But that kind of loyalty? It’s not stumbled upon. It’s not a happy accident. It’s rarer than a unicorn sipping a latte in downtown Chicago.

When I first approached her, I wasn’t hunting for a connection. Let’s be real—I’m no sentimental sap. I needed answers. Strategy. I came to her with questions—genuine ones, mind you, but rooted in my own survival. “How did you manage when you started? What’s the best way to stay afloat in this grind?”

She saw right through me, of course. She knew exactly what I was up to. And yet, she answered. Not just the surface-level nonsense. She shared pieces of herself—her story, her struggles, her perspective. In return, I gave her mine. Somewhere along the way, what began as calculated curiosity morphed into something real.

One late night, as the office lights dimmed and the hum of computers became a lullaby of exhaustion, she leaned against my desk. “You know,” she said, eyes scanning the chaos around us, “this place will chew you up and spit you out if you let it.” Her voice was a mix of warning and camaraderie. It was the beginning of a partnership that neither of us fully understood yet.

Loyalty isn’t tidy, and it sure as hell isn’t a walk in the park. I made mistakes—plenty of them. Like chasing my first love, convinced he was the panacea for every hole in my heart. She could’ve stepped back, watched me faceplant, and said, “Told you so.” But she didn’t.

She stepped closer. She befriended him too—not to compete, not to stake a claim, but to ensure I wasn’t left to drown alone. Even when it must’ve stung to watch me pour my heart into something so doomed, she stayed. I remember the night I came crying after yet another failed attempt to win him over. She handed me a whiskey neat and said, “Drink up. Let’s strategize your next move.” It wasn’t just support; it was tactical aid wrapped in genuine care.

And then came Eric. Oh, Eric. Charming, reckless Eric. She saw right through him. “You’re moving too fast,” she warned. “There’s something about him you’re not seeing.” But of course, I didn’t listen. Why would I? That would’ve required a level of self-awareness I clearly lacked.

Eric was the kind of guy who could talk the stripes off a zebra. We met at of of craigslist, as you did back in the day, and he swept me off my feet with promises of grandeur and late-night escapades. At first, everything was electric. But soon, the cracks appeared—calling and yelling at clients, and of course, I got him hired!

When Eric’s disaster spiraled out of control, I called her. I let it all spill out—the lies, the fallout, the mess I’d willingly stepped into. She could’ve told me to clean it up myself. Instead, she said, “Okay, let’s figure this out.”  And for Eric?  We found out about him on America's Most Wanted, because, of course. 

Together, we tidied up the wreckage. She didn’t just help me fix what Eric broke—she held a mirror to my own flaws. She made me confront the parts of myself I’d been dodging for years. Late nights turned into strategy sessions, and slowly, I began to see the bigger picture. And when the dust settled, she was still there, a steady presence amidst the chaos.

If there’s one chapter of my life that truly tested her patience, it was co-parenting with my ex-wife. Those two? Fire and ice. Oil and water. You get the picture. The very sound of my ex’s voice was enough to set her teeth on edge—and frankly, I understood. It wasn’t much easier for me.

But when it came to my daughter, she bit her tongue. I could hear the effort in her voice, the sharp edges she worked so hard to smooth out. She didn’t have to help me. But she did. She reminded me what mattered most—my daughter—and helped me navigate the minefield of co-parenting without losing my sanity.

There was a particular incident that stands out. My ex-wife had our typical arguements I was pissedn, ready to argue, but she called her. “Let’s talk about you're daughter and you did together,” she said, redirecting my rage into something manageable. It was small gestures like that which built the bridge between us, thanks to her intervention.

It’s in that context that her story truly begins.

She had two husbands in her life, but the story is more complex than that—it’s a saga of love, loss, and resilience, and how these experiences forged the remarkable woman she is. The first husband was also her third, a man I had the privilege of knowing before I left town and again after I returned. He was there during my time with her, a steady presence who, at first, I thought didn’t care much for me. He was reserved, quiet, not the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve. I often mistook his silence for indifference. But over time, I started to notice the small ways he showed his care—driving me around when I stayed with them, fixing things around the house without a word, making sure she didn’t have to shoulder too much on her own. It was subtle, but it was real.

When I left town, I didn’t think much about him. My focus shifted to my own life, and the routines we shared faded into memory. It wasn’t until I visited my daughter years later that I learned about her second husband—the man who came into her life while I was gone. She spoke of him with warmth and sorrow, a man who stepped in during one of her most challenging chapters. He was the kind of person who made others feel seen and valued, his kindness quiet but unmistakable. Through her job, I heard bits and pieces about how he supported her, how he brought a sense of stability to her life after so much loss. He wasn’t someone I knew, but through her stories, I could tell he was someone who had deeply impacted her.

Cancer took him far too soon, leaving her with yet another heavy burden to carry. When she spoke of him, there was a mixture of admiration and sadness, a deep appreciation for the love he had given her and the life they had shared, however briefly. His passing marked a painful chapter in her life, but it didn’t break her. She held onto the memories, using them as a source of strength as she carried on.

The silence was deafening. It made me wonder if what we built was strong enough to survive. But every now and then, I’d think back to those late nights, those hard conversations, the battles we fought together. And I’d remember: loyalty like hers doesn’t fade. It endures.

When life hit its hardest, I called her. I needed to see my daughter, but money was tight, and hotels were out of the question. I hesitated. Could I even ask for her help?

I should’ve known better. “Of course,” she said. “Come stay with us. You should’ve asked sooner.”

When I returned, it was her first husband who had come back into her life—the man I had known before. The years had changed him, softened some edges while deepening others. This time, I saw him differently. He wasn’t just the quiet man I’d known before; he was someone who had endured, someone who had weathered storms alongside her. I could see now what I had missed before: how deeply he cared for her, how much they leaned on each other. It was no longer a question of whether he liked me or not; his care for her spoke volumes, and that was all I needed to see.

Her home wasn’t just a roof over my head—it was a sanctuary. She made sure I had everything I needed, not just to get by but to focus on my daughter. Her husband helped, too. At the time, I thought his kindness was purely for her sake. But after he passed, she told me something that stopped me cold.

“He liked you,” she said. “He wouldn’t have done any of that if he didn’t.”

That hit me like a freight train. For years, I thought his help was obligatory, a means to keep the peace. But to know it was genuine? It reminded me of what she’d been teaching me all along: real loyalty isn’t born of obligation. It’s a choice.

Through it all, she’s been my anchor, my constant. She saw me at my worst and never turned away. I’ve tried—imperfectly, clumsily—to be the same for her.  What we built wasn’t perfect. It was messy, frustrating, and complicated. But it was real. And even now, when life pulls us in different directions, the foundation we built still holds.

I will always hold onto what we built. Because loyalty like hers doesn’t fade. It endures.

As time marched on, life continued to test us. The calls grew fewer. The conversations shorter. Time and distance drove a wedge where there had once been seamless connection.

But loyalty, true loyalty, has a way of enduring despite the odds. When the world seemed determined to pull us apart, the foundation we’d built held strong. I realized that no matter where the greasy pole took us, we’d always have that unspoken bond—a testament to the friendship and loyalty that defined us.

Looking back, it wasn’t the grand gestures or the dramatic rescues that cemented our bond. It was the small, everyday acts of kindness, the willingness to be there even when it wasn’t convenient, the shared laughter and the silent support during the darkest times. She taught me that loyalty isn’t about grand declarations or unending devotion without reason. It’s about being present, truly present, when it matters most.

Now, as I stand at the precipice of a new chapter in my life, I carry with me the lessons she imparted. Loyalty and friendship aren’t just words; they’re actions, choices made day after day, sometimes in the face of overwhelming odds. They’re about standing by someone, not because it’s easy, but because it’s right.

Her story, intertwined with mine, is a testament to the enduring power of loyalty and friendship. Through every twist and turn, every rise and fall, we held onto each other, proving that even in the most chaotic of environments, true connections can withstand the test of time and distance.

So here’s to her—the woman with a heart of gold, the anchor in my storm, the friend who never let go. Our journey up the greasy pole wasn’t about the climb itself, but about the unwavering bond that made every step worthwhile. And as I continue to climb, I do so with the promise to honor that loyalty, to cherish that friendship, and to remember that no matter how high I go, I’ll never forget the woman who stood by me every rung of the way.

In the grand theater of life, where everyone is desperately climbing their own greasy pole, the true gems are those who choose to climb alongside you, not to overshadow, but to uplift. She was that gem for me—a rare, steadfast presence in a world that often felt like it was spinning out of control.

I realize that our story isn’t just about loyalty and friendship. It’s about the intricate dance of human connections, the push and pull of life’s demands, and the moments of clarity that reveal who we truly are. It’s a reminder that amidst the chaos, the greasy poles, and the endless climbs, the bonds we forge with others are what truly define us.

So here’s to climbing together, to enduring loyalty, and to the friendships that light our way. Because in the end, it’s not just about reaching the top—it’s about who you become and who stands by you as you rise.