Friendships: For a season or a lifetime, they all leave something good

I believe my first friendship breakup was in first grade.
He was my best friend, next-door neighbor, and fellow redhead. I don’t recall what we were doing (we were in the classroom), but I do remember turning around, smiling at him, and—bam—he punched me in the stomach.
I still remember the feeling. It wasn’t the force of the punch that took my breath away, rather, the action. And I remember he mumbled something like, “Girls are dumb.” before walking away.

And that was that.

My six-year-old self was devastated. We had shared ice cream. We’d played dressup. Learned to tie our shoes together. And suddenly, I wasn’t his friend anymore—just a girl who I guess needed punching.

Wendy and Sherwin sitting in a tree…

Back then, most friendship breakups were dramatic but short-lived. We'd disagree on what game to play, I’d stomp home, and my mom would hand me two popsicles and tell me to go apologize. Whether I was sorry or not, somehow, it worked. We’d find our way back to each other. Forgiveness came easier and ego wasn’t quite so sharp.

Some friendships have stretched across time and distance, and some have found their way back to me when I least expected them—like through breast cancer. I had too many friends from my past who were fighting their own battle at the same time as me. And this shared diagnosis rekindled those friendships. For that, I am grateful.

Lately though, I’ve been navigating some adult friendship losses causing me sadness and confusion.

I’ve always thought that if a friendship ended it would be with just cause, or I’d at least see it coming. A disagreement, a falling out, a moment of truth where someone says, “This isn’t working anymore.”  That would hurt, sure—but at least I’d know what happened. But the endings I’ve experienced lately haven’t felt so cut and dry.

Somewhere along the way, I lost a couple people I thought I’d keep. They were connections I valued—people I’d worked with or grown close to through time, creativity, shared life experience. I believed there was mutual respect. A sense that we were cheering each other on. And then… just space. Distance. An unanswered message. An unfriend on social. A subtle shift I couldn’t name but felt all the same. 

And the thing that eats at me is that I haven’t done anything wrong.  At least, not that I know of. If I’d made a mistake, I’d want to own it. I’d apologize. I’d show up and try to fix what I could. But when you’re not given a reason, when the door just quietly closes without explanation, you’re left in this odd limbo, grieving something you didn’t know you were about to lose. And you’re left wondering why…

In the other case, it’s more clear: there’s a new relationship in the picture and I’ve become the “other woman” who is causing tension in this budding new romance. And now a friendship—one that held depth, laughter, and realness—can no longer be. How is that fair. Wasn’t I the friend first? Why should I have to lose a friend because of someone else's insecurities or lack of trust. And I want to fight back, but know I shouldn’t. 

And so I move on…

Friendship in adulthood is a complicated thing. We’re juggling jobs, families, relationships, illnesses, changing identities. Sometimes friendships fall away because life gets loud. Sometimes they disappear because of discomfort, time, or the unspoken expectations that come with growing older. Still, it stings.

I won’t stop valuing connection. I won’t stop believing in the beauty of meaningful friendships. And I certainly won’t stop being someone who shows up fully and honestly. But I’m giving myself permission to feel the loss. To name the grief. To be both hurt and kind. Confused and compassionate. Disappointed and still open to new connections.

So here’s to the friends who stayed. To the ones who returned. And even those who left without a word. I’m still grateful for the time. Because at the end of the day, friendship—like art, and life—is imperfect and beautiful and always worth the risk.