A Treatise on Loyalty, Trauma, and Peanut Butter Cups
Let me just say it plainly: I don’t need friends. I have Reese’s. And unlike the majority of humans I’ve let into my life, Reese’s have never borrowed my charger, trauma-dumped in my DMs without asking, or “forgotten” to Venmo me after splitting a check. Reese’s don’t get weirdly quiet when I talk about cancer. Reese’s don’t circle back later to tell me they “need space” because I “feel too much.” No. Reese’s sit there. Silently. Wrapped in foil. Offering unwavering support with no emotional labor required on my end.
You know what friendship is when you strip away the performative brunches, the delayed text responses, the mutual following of people you both hate? It’s someone showing up every time. It’s someone being there even when you’re sad, bloated, ugly crying to that one season of Grey’s Anatomy where everyone dies. It’s someone not gaslighting you into thinking you’re too much, too needy, too complicated. And I’m sorry, but no human has ever done that for me the way a Reese’s does.
Every peanut butter cup is a tiny, circular therapist with no co-pay. It listens. It doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t offer unsolicited advice that sounds suspiciously like projection. It just melts in your mouth like the validation your father never gave you. I’ve had more honest, healing connections with a Reese’s egg than I have with most people I went to college with.
Let’s talk consistency. Try finding a friend who doesn’t flake on you the moment they get a boyfriend with a neck tattoo and a vape problem. Try finding someone who doesn’t suddenly start a pyramid scheme and refer to you as a “business opportunity.” Reese’s? They’ve been showing up in the same bright orange wrapper since the first time your 5th-grade bully made you feel like you were made of glass. They didn’t leave. They didn’t judge. They just quietly said, “You want one or five?” and you felt seen.
There’s a reason I trust the holiday shapes more than I trust 98% of the people on my contacts list. A Reese’s pumpkin in October is a hug. A Reese’s tree in December is a goddamn Christmas miracle. A Reese’s egg in spring? That’s rebirth, baby. Jesus didn’t rise from the grave so I could put up with fair-weather friends who ghost me during depressive episodes. No. He rose so we could have the Reese’s egg.
Do I hoard the seasonal ones like they’re emotional life rafts? Absolutely. Do I keep backup minis in my desk drawer, my nightstand, and my travel bag like a sugar-slicked safety net? Without shame. Reese’s have become my emergency contact. If I flatline, I expect a Big Cup in my hand before anyone touches the defibrillator.
And let’s not ignore the versatility. There is a Reese’s for every version of your emotional breakdown:
- Minis for those moments when you’re low-key spiraling but still pretending to function in public.
- Big Cups when the existential dread hits around 3:00 AM and you need something that screams “I survived childhood.”
- Reese’s Pieces for when you need to feel something but your therapist canceled again.
- Fast Break for when you’re on the verge of quitting your job but want to eat your rage instead.
- Take 5 when you need complex emotional layering—salty, sweet, and unstable.
Meanwhile, your so-called “friends” are out here sending you TikToks instead of asking how you are. They post inspirational quotes about “boundaries” while quietly unfollowing you for being “too political.” They go to brunch without inviting you and caption it “my people” like you didn’t cry in their car last month. But Reese’s? Reese’s would never.
I’ve cried into the foil of a Reese’s Big Cup while watching This Is Us. I’ve used Reese’s to bribe myself into doing taxes. I’ve whispered, “At least I have you” to a king-size pack while the world fell apart. And they’ve always been there. Solid. Dependable. Slightly oily. Unconditionally mine.
So yeah, maybe I’ve got trust issues. Maybe I’m a little codependent on a candy brand. But in a world that constantly asks me to contort myself into something more palatable, Reese’s never demands I change. They accept me in sweatpants, in grief, in joy, in hormone-fueled cravings. They are the only ones who understand what “I’m fine” really means.
People say, “Don’t eat your feelings.” I say, “Don’t tell me how to love.”
Reese’s may not text back. But they also won’t trauma bond with me and then vanish. They won’t post vague subtweets about loyalty. They won’t pretend I didn’t exist the moment I stop being useful. Reese’s don’t just see me. They contain me. Like the emotional support I never got from my birth parents.
So the next time someone asks why I’m not more social, or why I skipped their baby shower to stay home watching Schitt’s Creek with a family-size bag of Reese’s? I’ll say what I always say: Because I’ve already found the only sweet, dependable, emotionally available friends I need. And they come in packs of twelve.