I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to lose a friend. Not in the tragic, abrupt sense we might associate with that phrase, but in the quieter, more subtle way that friendships can slip away over time. In your mid-20s, there’s this strange shift that happens. Your circle gets smaller, not because you want it to, but because life seems to demand it. You start to lose friends you thought would be there for the rest of your life, sometimes because of some fight or betrayal, but otherwise because you're simply growing in different directions.
And, I guess the second part is okay. Or at least, it should be. We should be allowed to grow without friction, without the underlying tension that sometimes bubbles up when people realize they aren’t on the same path anymore. But that’s not always how it goes. Sometimes, the natural evolution of growing apart still hurts. There are those friendships that end without a clear cause, a sort of slow fading that feels both natural and heartbreaking.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that my tolerance for certain behaviors has changed. I value people’s presence more—who they are, their trust, their emotions. And I’m less likely to let things slide. It’s like there’s this invisible line that, once crossed, makes it hard to go back. I think that’s part of growing up too—understanding that you don’t have to accept less than what you deserve just to maintain a friendship.
Recently, when my dad passed away, I went through a lot of personal realizations about friendships. Grief has a funny way of bringing clarity, showing you who your friends are, sometimes in the most unexpected ways. There were people I had drifted apart from or had a fallout with, who at one point I considered close who didn’t reach out, and it hurt. A lot. I remember feeling upset, almost betrayed again. But then, there were friends I hadn’t spoken to in years who reached out with genuine support. And that, more than anything, validated my feelings. It was like a relief, knowing that my emotions were real and justified.
But this reflection also made me confront a part of myself I’m not particularly proud of. When I’ve had a falling out with someone I love, it hurts me deeply. And I find myself wanting others to feel that hurt too. I want them to see what that person did to me, to validate my pain by sharing it. It’s a toxic trait, and I’m working on it, but it’s hard. It’s hard to let go of the idea that making others see your side will somehow make the hurt go away. I know it doesn’t do any good. It’s just something I need to learn to release.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that grieving friendships is a part of life that we don’t talk about enough. We all grow, we all change, and sometimes that means we grow apart from people we once couldn’t imagine living without. And that’s okay. It’s okay to give yourself space to grieve those losses without feeling like you have to immediately make a decision about what that means for your future. It’s okay to value those who grow with you, in the same way, without letting the loss of other friendships cloud your ability to appreciate what’s in front of you.
I’ve been blessed with the best friends in the world. The people who stand by me now, who lift me up, and who make my life better every day—they are the ones I want to focus on. If I spend too much time mourning those I’ve lost, I might miss out on all the love and joy that these incredible people bring into my life. So, here’s to the friendships that have faded, to the ones that have stayed, and to the ones that are yet to come. Life is too short not to cherish each moment and each connection, no matter how fleeting it may be.
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