Waiting on a Friend—and Finding Vulnerability

“A friend is someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself.” – Jim Morrison

Pexels: Curtis Adams

Unwinding one evening after a recent family get together at our Denver home, I listened to side two of the Rolling Stones’ 1981 album Tattoo You, which my cousin Pete considers one of, if not the greatest side two of any rock and roll album. The more I listen to it, the more I agree (kudos, Pete!). Side two closes with the well-known Stones’ hit Waiting on a Friend, one of my favorites, and for reasons unclear to me I heard it differently this time. Maybe it’s my age, my experiences, or perhaps it’s the lens of vulnerability I try to keep focused on what I observe these days in our world.

Whatever the reason, the song struck me as a quiet anthem to something we don’t often associate with rock and roll—or with the Stones for that matter: emotional honesty, the heart of vulnerability. Beneath its beautiful saxophone, reggae-infused rhythm, and warm, clean guitar tones lies a message about what it means to need someone, not out of desire or ambition, but out of simple human longing.

The lyrics set the tone early in the song: “I’m not waiting on a lady / I’m just waiting on a friend.” That line alone pulls the curtain back. For all the swagger and bravado that defined so much of the Stones’ earlier work, and Jagger himself, this isn’t about conquest or heartbreak. It’s about something much simpler: companionship. To declare that you’re not looking for romance, but for friendship—that’s a statement of vulnerability. It’s an admission that you seek connection without the baggage of seduction or performance. In a culture that often mistakes independence for strength, waiting on a friend is an act of genuine openness.

Jagger even goes further: “Don’t need a whore, I don’t need no booze, don’t need a virgin priest.” It’s as if he’s methodically stripping away the distractions and indulgences that once masked deeper needs. What remains is someone who’s trying to live more simply, more truthfully. There’s vulnerability in that. It’s the kind of clarity that often comes not in youth but with age and experience, when ego and the need to perform give way to wisdom—and when the noise of life quiets enough for us to admit what really matters.

There’s also something vulnerable in the waiting itself. To wait is to be exposed. It means you’ve reached out—whether literally or emotionally—and now you’re trusting that someone will meet you there. You’re not in control of the timing or the outcome. That’s hard for anyone, especially those of us used to leading, doing, fixing, controlling. But the song suggests that sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is to be still and be available. Friendship isn’t about transaction or utility. It’s about presence, availability.

Listening to Waiting on a Friend reminded me that vulnerability isn’t always apparent. Sometimes it’s found in the quiet moments, in the patience of showing up without demands, in the courage to say, “I just want someone beside me.” It’s a song for those who’ve moved past the need to impress and found something more meaningful in the simple act of waiting. And in today’s busy, divided, and distracted world, that’s exactly the kind of strength we need more of.

Here’s a YouTube link to the song, to include lyrics.

And if you’re interested in more of my thoughts on vulnerability, check out my book Large and In Charge No More—A Journey to Vulnerable Leadership.

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Enjoy!