Latest / Who’s Your Person?: Friendship, Trust & Belonging / The Quiet Grief of Outgrowing a College Roommate | Who’s Your Person?
Transcript
- You know that specific hollow ache in your chest when you realize you haven’t thought about someone in three weeks, and then suddenly, a song comes on the radio and you remember exactly how they used to laugh? That isn’t nostalgia. That is grief. Let’s sit with that for a second. Because I think we’ve all been there, standing in our kitchen at some ungodly hour, scrolling through a group chat that feels like it belongs to people from a different lifetime. It’s usually filled with inside jokes you don’t quite get anymore, or photos of trips you weren’t invited to, or just the relentless ping of lives moving forward while you’re still trying to figure out where you fit in the present moment. And in the middle of that digital noise, there’s one name that stands out. Your college roommate. The person who knew your worst habits, saw you cry over failed exams or broken hearts, and shared a forty-square-foot box with you during the most formative years of your life. But here’s the thing no one tells you: sometimes, you stop talking to them. Not because of a fight. Not because of betrayal. But because the silence grows so loud it becomes its own entity. You look at their latest post—a promotion, a wedding, a baby—and you feel a pang of love, sure, but also a strange, disorienting distance. Like you’re looking at a character in a book you loved, but you’ve moved on to a new genre entirely. You want to reach out. You type a message. Then you delete it. What would you even say? How do you bridge the gap between the two versions of yourself that exist across those miles? I want you to imagine the architecture of that shared space. For four years, you were essentially strangers who agreed to split rent. You learned each other’s rhythms. You knew which floorboard creaked at 2 AM. You knew how they took their coffee, or if they didn’t drink coffee at all. You witnessed each other becoming adults in real-time, without the filter of social media. There was a raw intimacy in that. You saw the messy, uncurated reality of another human being’s life. Now, fast forward ten years. You are living in a sun-drenched corner of a Brooklyn apartment, surrounded by houseplants that demand attention, writing freelance pieces that pay just enough to keep the lights on. Your roommate now is likely a stranger you vetted carefully, or perhaps you live alone, cherishing the silence. The chaos of that college dorm is gone. And with it goes the daily, low-level friction that actually bonded you together. You miss the friction. You miss the way you could argue about whose turn it was to take out the trash and then order pizza together an hour later. That conflict was a language. And now, the language has changed. Or maybe, it has simply stopped being spoken. What did that cost you? I ask this gently, because I know the answer might be heavy. We often think of friendship as something you earn through grand gestures. But drifting apart is quiet. It’s the unpaid bill. It’s the missed birthday. It’s the slowly fading frequency. When you outgrow someone, you aren’t failing them. You are evolving. And evolution is inherently isolating before it is connecting. I remember a time when I realized I had drifted from a friend who had seen me through my twenties. We hadn’t spoken in months. I felt guilty, like I had abandoned ship. But then I looked at my life. My values had shifted. My humor had darkened. My priorities had narrowed. If I forced a conversation, it would have been performative. It would have been polite. And politeness is the enemy of true connection. So I let it be. I grieved the loss of the version of us that existed in that dorm room. I mourned the ease we once had. And I allowed myself to feel sad about it, without judging myself for not fighting harder to keep it alive. We romanticize the past because it is safe. The college roommate exists in amber. They are fixed in time as the person who helped you survive freshman year. But the person they are today? You don’t really know them. And that’s okay. You don’t need to know everything about them to honor what they gave you. Sometimes, we hold onto these connections because we are afraid of losing the evidence of who we were. If I lose touch with my roommate, do I lose a part of myself? No. You carry that part with you. In your resilience. In your ability to compromise. In your capacity for forgiveness. The danger lies in confusing nostalgia with presence. Nostalgia is a museum. Presence is a living room. You can visit the museum, appreciate the artifacts, but you cannot live there. If you try to force a current relationship into the shape of a past one, you will both suffocate. You have to meet the person they are now, not the ghost they were then. And often, that person is someone you can only admire from afar. So, what do you do with this quiet grief? Do you send the text? Maybe. But only if it comes from a place of curiosity, not obligation. Ask yourself: Why do I want to reconnect? Is it loneliness? Is it guilt? Or is it genuine interest in their life now? If it’s the latter, reach out. Keep it light. Share a memory, not a demand. Let them know you remember them fondly, without expecting them to fill the void left by their absence. If it’s not the latter, let it go. You are allowed to outgrow them. You are allowed to choose community intentionally, rather than defaulting to history. This doesn’t make you cold. It makes you honest. The world is full of people who want to drag you back into old narratives. Your college roommate may represent a chapter you are ready to close. That closure is a gift. It clears space for new voices, new frequencies, new ways of belonging. It hurts, yes. But it also frees you. This brings us to the heart of what we are doing here. Belonging is not a destination you arrive at and stay forever. It is a practice. A daily choice. It requires us to be brave enough to let go of what no longer fits, so we can make room for what does. Your college roommate was vital to your journey. They helped you become who you are. But they are not necessarily who you are becoming. And that is not a failure of friendship. It is a triumph of growth. Think about the people in your life right now. Who shows up for you as you are today? Who sees the changes in you and adapts? Who challenges you? Those are your people now. Not because of history, but because of presence. Honor the past. Thank it. But do not let it anchor you to the shore when you are meant to sail. The ocean is vast. There are new horizons. New voices. New kinds of love waiting for you. You just have to be willing to listen for them. So, here is your permission slip. Permission to miss them without needing them. Permission to love the memory without forcing the reality. Permission to feel the grief as a testament to the love you once shared, rather than a sign that you have done something wrong. You are not losing a friend. You are graduating from a phase of life. And graduation is always bittersweet. You pack your bags. You say goodbye to the rooms that held you. You step out into the unknown. And you trust that you are ready for what comes next. Take a deep breath. Feel your feet on the ground. You are here. Now. Alive. Changing. Growing. And that is enough. More than enough. It is everything. Keep going. Keep listening. Keep choosing yourself, and the ones who choose you back. You are doing better than you think. I’m Eden. Until next time, be gentle with your history, and brave with your future. You’ve got this.