The Breakup No One Talks About

The first time I broke up with a friend was after my dad died. I had texted Lily* to tell her the news and asked if she could meet for lunch that weekend. She didn’t respond. Not for a day. Not for a week. Not even after a few months.

Meanwhile, I watched her actively participate in a group chat we were in together and happily say yes to a group lunch with everyone active there. It felt like more than just a letdown. It felt like abandonment.

Three months later, she finally responded with a half-hearted apology and asked if I still wanted to get lunch. And for the first time in my life, I couldn’t sweep it under the rug. I had always been the peacekeeper, the one who swallowed pain to keep relationships intact. But something in me had shifted.

Why would I want to be friends with someone who disappeared when I needed her the most?

I didn’t.

So I told her I didn’t want to be friends anymore. She lashed out in anger. It was the last thing I needed on top of grieving my father. The conversation didn’t end with closure or peace, and I carried a quiet shame about it for a long time. I felt like I had failed. I didn’t tell many people.

I wish the story ended there, but it doesn't.

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Since then, I’ve experienced more friendship breakups than I care to count, each one teaching me something about self-abandonment, boundaries, and the heartbreak we aren't talking about.

My next friend breakup was with a friend who only talked about herself, and when I would speak, she would overtly interrupt and start talking about herself. Her life revolved around her husband, so she would never commit to plans with me unless he had committed to plans without her. There were times when she was loving and would show up for me, but her self-centeredness was usually the most prevalent theme. I chickened out by not breaking up with her directly, and I simply used my move from Chicago to Hawaii as an excuse to ghost her.

Another friend, Greg, used me as his surrogate girlfriend. His actual girlfriend would break up with him every other week, and because he was co-dependent and needed a female companion, and I was new to the island and desperate for friends, it was a perfect storm. When we hung out, he wanted me to be exactly like his girlfriend, and when I wasn’t, which I never was, he would constantly nag me. His lack of boundaries was suffocating. We had several conversations about it, and he seemed receptive to accepting me for who I am, but it never lasted. Luckily, he became more involved in his girlfriend’s drama, so I was able to slow fade the friendship.

One of my friends from Chicago was married with a child and never had much time to hang out with me, but as soon as I moved four thousand miles away, she found herself in the middle of a divorce and wanted to talk all the time over the phone with a five-hour time difference. She had never shown that much interest in our friendship in the previous ten years. I felt like her emotional support human. Worst of all, distance allowed me to reflect on our friendship, and I started to see how she had always taken on a therapist role, and my wounded inner child ate that up. Now, she was trying to reverse the roles, and either way, the dynamic was too unhealthy, and I didn’t see the value in putting in the work to heal a friendship with someone so far away. I sent her a text with a vague explanation as to why I didn’t want to talk anymore and blocked her number.

There was also the “spiritual mentor” who wasn’t actually invited by me to be one. She criticized everything I did, masked as “wisdom.” When I published my book, Running in Slippers, she pointed out typos, and nothing else. No celebration. No joy. Just correction. When I tried to address how I felt, she made it clear she thought she knew better. I ghosted her because I knew any attempt to explain why I didn't want to be friends would result in a lecture from her about how she knew more about what was best for me.

And then, there was one of the hardest ones.

Janice was extremely critical and unsupportive. At one point in our friendship, I almost died, and a few months later, I was still having a hard time dealing with it, and she curtly told me that I needed to get over it. Then, when I was writing my book, Running in Slippers, she never had anything supportive to say and at one point told me, "I don't know why you don't just quit." Worst of all, she covertly supported people who betrayed me because she knew if I knew about it, I wouldn't be okay with it. And she was right, because when I found out, I texted her that I was no longer interested in our friendship. She didn't respond, and for some reason, that hurt too.

Several years later, I found out from a mutual acquaintance that Janice had breast cancer. Part of me wanted to reach out and send her loving words. Another part of me felt furious because even if it were ten years later and she was still traumatized by having cancer, I would never tell her to “just get over it.” The angry part of me wanted to reach out so I could rub it in her face what it looked like to have love and compassion for another human being going through a hard time. Instead of reaching out, I energetically sent her love (which is not easy to do to someone who has hurt you).

Here’s what I’ve learned: Friendship breakups hurt just as much as romantic ones. But we rarely talk about them.

The hardest part?

Acceptance. That someone platonic that I loved deeply might not be meant for the version of me I’m becoming.
The second hardest part?
Boundaries. Saying no to old dynamics so I can say yes to inner peace. Sometimes, the most loving thing we can do is walk away.

Boundaries are more than protection. They are a declaration of self-love.

If you’re walking through a friendship breakup, please know:
You're not failing.
You're growing.
And your glow is worth protecting.

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*All names have been changed to protect privacy.

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