Walking in the Wind

Friendship breakups often feel more complex and, in many ways, cut deeper than romantic ones because they challenge a part of our identity we don’t always think to protect. When a friend leaves, it feels less like two people drifting apart and more like losing a piece of ourselves—someone who knew us in the unpolished, unfiltered parts and chose to be there anyway. Friendship brings an intimacy that isn’t bound by the same expectations as romance, which makes its loss feel raw and unshielded, like an exposed nerve.

In my experience, navigating these rekindled friendships has felt like trying to touch a hot stove without getting burned. I’m aware that my reluctance to let people in again is, in a way, a survival mechanism. Each time I consider opening myself up, I hesitate, wondering if I’m inviting more hurt. But I also know that isolating myself isn’t the answer. The challenge is, I don’t know how to approach friendship halfway; when I commit, I commit fully. I’ve been told I don’t know how to do anything in moderation. So, when I lose a friend, I lose parts of myself I’d entrusted to them, leaving me to sift through fragments of who I was in that connection.

There’s this “hotel” effect in my friendships, where people come in, enjoy the comfort, and leave when it suits them, expecting they can return whenever they need solace. It’s as though I’m a sanctuary for people seeking calm before their next storm. At some point, I had to ask if I was allowing myself to be used as an emotional getaway instead of fostering connections with mutual support.

One particular friendship lingers in my mind. She would drift in and out, saying her own insecurities made her pull back. I could see she was struggling, that she’d somehow put me on a pedestal, constantly comparing herself. I told her repeatedly that her authenticity was what mattered, that her unique energy was why I cherished her. Yet, every time she returned, it felt less about us and more about having a safe place to land when she needed it. Our conversations became increasingly one-sided—my role was only to listen, to hold space for her, but never to share myself in return.

People can say they’re cutting ties to start fresh, but when they return because “the grass wasn’t greener,” it feels dismissive of the value of the friendship. It’s as if they’re saying, “No one else could be what you are, so here I am again.” It’s frustratingly shallow, as though they’re more attached to what I represent than to me as a person. I’ve grown, learned, and healed (I’m actually still doing all of those things), and now I realize I can’t keep holding space for people who only show up when it’s convenient. A friendship that doesn’t grow with us but instead circles back out of habit isn’t one I can sustain.
I’m learning that true friendship doesn’t come with conditions or one-sided expectations. If you value someone, you don’t leave them dangling or come and go like a seasonal trend. You stay through the little things, the hard things, not just when you need a shoulder to lean on.

Recently, I had an introspective conversation with my best girl (my “Captain America”). While it wasn’t a fight, there was tension deep enough to unsettle me because we don’t usually have tension, and I wanted to resolve it. I told my partner that I felt lost with my best girl on the outs because she’s my go-to for everything. I was so uncomfortable with the thought of causing her hurt that I didn’t want to dwell in it. This made me reflect on times when others hadn’t considered me in the same way. Treating people as you wish to be treated doesn’t always guarantee kindness in return.

There have definitely been times where I may have been the ‘bad guy,’ and that’s okay. Whether there’s a reason or not, I respect anyone who can confidently say they don’t like me or want nothing to do with me. Sometimes, we simply outgrow each other—maybe because someone still holds onto a version of you that no longer exists, or because you’ve moved beyond where they peaked. It happens.

I won’t advise you to be nice to a fault or encourage clown behavior. You don’t need to be the bigger person or turn the other cheek. Absolutely not. But you do need to pour into people who pour into you—especially your friends. My best girl and I discussed the challenges of navigating our long-distance friendship amidst all our recent changes. (She even referred to Hiccup, as our baby—need I say more?)
Reflecting on all of this, I realize just how profound and essential true friendship is to our sense of self. Unlike romantic love, friendship isn’t always romanticized or given center stage, yet it anchors us in ways we often don’t acknowledge until it’s gone. Losing a friend isn’t just losing someone to talk to or spend time with; it’s losing a mirror to the parts of ourselves that we shared in trust, the comfort of knowing someone saw us completely and chose to stay. That’s why friendship endings cut so deeply—they strip away a foundation we might not even have realized we were standing on.

True friendship holds a different weight, a different kind of permanence. When it’s mutual and real, it becomes a lasting part of who we are, offering a place we can be fully ourselves. And that’s why, while I’m learning to hold my boundaries, I’ll always treasure and invest in those friendships that hold space for me too—the ones that aren’t just there for the easy times but stay for the hard and everything in between.