Keeping Everyone Won’t Bring You Closer to Yourself

While prepping my coffee in a near-zombie state this morning, I came to the abrupt but very illuminating conclusion that a friend I have been growing away from for years is not (really) a part of my life anymore. There have been multiple instances of this for me — it’s nothing new. But something about the initial, quiet realization is a consistently devastating pill to swallow.

Somewhere along the way, I got it in my head that losing people is indicative of relational and personal failure. If I’m not able to retain and nurture the connections I’ve made — which is to say, if I can’t be someone capable of holding things — then it must be because I (Tryn) am not cool enough or intelligent enough or exciting enough for other people to give a shit about me in the long-term. Reality, of course, is a far more complicated and enigmatic beast, but it’s curious that I’ve been hardwired to believe that a) relationship change is always negative and b) when it does happen, the fault rests on me.

Some of this may stem from an incessant need to please. A quick Google search for “why am I a people pleaser” yields the following:

People pleasers often act the way they do because of their insecurities and lack of self-esteem.

Okay…. ouch.

While I’m not sure it’s that drastic, there is some truth to the idea that making yourself responsible for other people’s emotions enables you to avoid confronting your own, not to mention that it also takes agency away from the other party— if they feel as though they no longer have the time or energy to keep up a relationship with you, that doesn’t mean it’s your cue to try to “fix it.”

And most of the time, the reason for relationship fluctuation isn’t dramatic in the slightest. Most of the time, we move away or start new relationships or find hobbies or have babies, and the altered relationship that comes with those moments is good because it means one or both people is actively pursuing the most authentic versions of themselves. In other words, changing.

My friend and I haven’t been on the same page for a while. I knew that. Our paths were always going to diverge because we met in such a wild and temporary period of youth, and keeping things exactly as they were would require serious commitment from both of us. In the age of sprawl and hyper-connection, such commitment is hard, and frankly, not a realistic expectation to uphold in every relationship a person has.

So, yeah. I’m scared of admitting I put effort into something that didn’t work out, especially when it wasn’t up to me. That kind of shift in identity is going to involve discomfort.

But why should it be selfish of me to want my friend to stay interested in me forever? Isn’t that, by default, what a friend signs up to do?

“No,” my therapist has told me gently, “that’s never part of the contract.”

Good enough point. Save for a few middle school rituals, we don’t produce contracts for our friends because they would be asymmetrical and entitled and subject to constant review.

Accepting the ebb and flow through every aspect of the human experience is possibly the best way to ensure a relationship is founded on a mutual understanding that honors everyone involved — even when the going gets confusing.

My best guess? Keep submitting your love for what it is at its core— free of constraints and measurements— and hope for the best.