Friendship Hurts

I’ve come to accept a difficult truth: friendship breakups often cut deeper than romantic ones. The pain of detaching from someone you once considered family—someone who held your secrets, witnessed your growth, and shared your sacred spaces—is a grief that lingers. It’s not just the absence of their presence, but the conscious effort to unlearn the instinct to care, to love them from a distance, and to silence the ache of what once was. Friendships shape our journey in profound ways. We are not islands—we thrive in connection, in mutual vulnerability, in shared laughter and tears. So when a friendship dissolves, especially one built on deep emotional intimacy, it feels like losing a part of yourself. The heartbreak lies not only in the separation, but in the realization that someone you trusted with your rawest self is no longer safe to hold that space. Still, I’ve learned that clinging to relationships that have outlived their purpose—out of fear, nostalgia, or guilt—only delays healing. Letting go is not a betrayal of love; it’s an act of self-preservation. Because the most dangerous relationships aren’t with enemies—they’re with “frenemies.” The ones who wear the mask of loyalty while quietly sowing confusion, distortion, and harm. Their betrayal is subtle, often wrapped in half-truths and gaslighting, leaving you questioning your reality and doubting your intuition. I’ve fought battles on behalf of people who fed me misinformation, who twisted narratives to serve their own ends. And when the truth surfaced, they refused accountability, choosing manipulation over honesty. That kind of friendship is not worth preserving. It erodes your peace, distorts your judgment, and leaves you emotionally bankrupt. This week, my sister Maame offered me two truths that shifted something in me: first, to sit in silence with my truth without needing confrontation or explanation; and second, to mourn what could have been so I can embrace what’s ahead. Not every wound deserves words. Some closures are found in quiet clarity, not loud conversations. Wisdom, I’ve realized, is knowing when to speak and when to walk away. It’s discerning the nature of the person before choosing the method of response. And sometimes, the most powerful act is choosing not to explain yourself to someone who’s already decided not to understand you. I no longer chase closure from others. I seek clarity within myself—through reflection, writing, and time. I’m learning to honor my peace, to rise above the need to be heard, because not every platform offered is worth the self-doubt it invites. This is a journey. You won’t always get it right. But healing is not about perfection—it’s about persistence. Keep choosing yourself. Keep choosing peace. And above all, keep growing.