Latest / The Friendship Room: Honest Conversations About Friends & Connection / The Guilt of Choosing Yourself: Therapy, Friendship & The Right to Heal | The Friendship Room
Transcript
- I canceled dinner with my oldest friend last night because I was too exhausted from sitting in a room and crying about things I’ve never said out loud. And honestly? I felt like a terrible person for doing it. Let’s sit with that for a second. That specific kind of guilt that settles in your chest when you decline an invitation not because you don’t love them, but because you simply do not have enough left to give. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? You’re scrolling through texts, seeing the plans being made, the jokes being shared, the lives moving forward without you. And instead of feeling curious or excited, you feel a sharp, hot pang of shame. It whispers that you are becoming difficult. That you are becoming heavy. That you are the friend who always has something wrong, something to fix, something to process. But here is what I want you to hear tonight, if you can let it sink in past the noise of your own internal critic: that shame is a liar. Prioritizing your mental health is not a betrayal of friendship. It is the foundation of it. When I look back at my twenties, I realize how much of my energy was spent performing wellness for the sake of others. I smiled when I wanted to scream. I showed up when I wanted to disappear. I thought that was loyalty. I thought that was strength. But it was just survival, and it was slowly hollowing me out. We need to talk about what we think loyalty looks like. For so many of us, especially women raised to be caretakers, loyalty has been confused with availability. We believe that if our friend is struggling, we must drop everything to catch them. And we shouldn't! We absolutely should support each other. But somewhere along the line, we started believing that we also have to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, even when we are drowning ourselves. What does loyalty look like on a Tuesday? I used to think it looked like answering every text immediately. It looked like saying yes to the wine night even when I had a headache. It looked like suppressing my own needs so I wouldn't be a burden. But true loyalty? Real, deep, enduring loyalty? It looks like honesty. It looks like having the courage to say, 'I am in therapy right now. I am learning how to be a whole person again. I might miss a few things while I figure this out.' It looks like trusting that your friends love you enough to wait for you to show up as yourself, rather than showing up as the version of you that is constantly giving. If they cannot handle the truth of your healing process, then maybe they were only ever comfortable with the mask you were wearing. There is an invisible labor involved in therapy that most people don't see. They see the session once a week. They don't see the hours of journaling afterward. They don't see the awkward conversations you have to rehearse in your head before you call someone. They don't see the emotional hangover that comes after unpacking trauma. It is exhausting work. It is the kind of work that leaves you physically tired, mentally drained, and emotionally raw. And yet, we often feel guilty for needing rest after doing such hard work. We feel like we are slacking off. But think about it this way: if you were training for a marathon, would you feel guilty for taking a rest day? Would you apologize to your running group for not showing up because your legs needed to recover? Probably not. So why do we treat our minds differently? Why do we expect ourselves to perform at peak social capacity when we are literally rebuilding the architecture of our inner world? Tell me more about the cost of that. What are you paying for by pretending you are fine when you are not? Are you paying with your integrity? Are you paying with your joy? Because eventually, the bill comes due, and it is always more expensive than the price of setting a boundary. One of the hardest parts of this journey is navigating the reactions of those around you. Not everyone will understand. Some people will pull away, not because they don't care, but because they are uncomfortable with their own reflections. When you start doing the work, it shines a light on the things they might be avoiding. They might interpret your distance as rejection. They might label you as 'changed' or 'difficult.' This is painful. It hurts deeply when someone you love seems to mourn the old you, the one who was easier to predict, easier to manage. But I want to remind you that you are not responsible for managing their discomfort. You are responsible for your own growth. And sometimes, growth requires space. It requires silence. It requires you to say no to things that drain you so you can say yes to things that sustain you. This isn't about cutting people out necessarily; it's about changing the dynamic. It's about moving from a relationship based on convenience or codependency to one based on mutual respect and authentic connection. If a friendship cannot survive the reality of your healing, then it was never built on solid ground to begin with. I remember a moment early in my own therapy where I realized I had spent years apologizing for my existence. I said sorry for taking up space. Sorry for having feelings. Sorry for needing help. It was a habit, deep-seated and automatic. Breaking that habit has been one of the most liberating experiences of my life. Reclaiming your narrative means stopping the apology for your humanity. It means recognizing that your mental health is not a luxury item. It is not a perk you get when everything else is perfect. It is essential maintenance. Just like brushing your teeth or eating vegetables, it is necessary for your long-term well-being. When you prioritize your therapy, you are not being selfish. You are being responsible. You are taking ownership of your life. And ironically, this often makes you a better friend. When you are grounded, when you are clear about your needs, when you are healed enough to hold your own boundaries, you bring a richer, more present version of yourself to every interaction. You stop seeking validation and start offering connection. You become a safe harbor for others because you have built a safe harbor for yourself. So, here is my invitation to you tonight. Be soft with yourself. Allow yourself to feel the grief of the friendships that might shift or fade during this time. Allow yourself to feel the fear of the unknown. But do not let guilt steer the ship. You are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to be messy. You are allowed to be a work in progress. In fact, you are most beautiful when you are honest about your progress. The world does not need another polished, perfect friend who hides her cracks. It needs real, raw, resilient humans who are brave enough to show their scars and say, 'This is where I have been. This is where I am going.' And if you need to cancel dinner to go home and sit in silence, or cry, or just breathe, then do it. Do it without apology. Do it with grace. Do it knowing that you are building a life that is truly yours, and that is the greatest gift you can offer to everyone around you, including your friends. They don't need you to be perfect. They need you to be real. And you are so very real. You are so very worthy. You are so very loved. Just as you are. Right now. In this moment. Exactly like this. Thank you for letting me into your evening. I’ll be thinking of you, and I hope you are thinking kindly of yourself tonight. Until next time, take care of that heart of yours. It’s doing its best. Goodnight, friend.