Latest / Who’s Your Person?: Friendship, Trust & Belonging / Why Some Friendships Are Meant to Be Seasonal, Not Forever | Who’s Your Person?
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of grief that hits you on a Tuesday afternoon when you realize you haven’t thought about someone in three years, and it doesn’t hurt at all. It’s not sadness; it’s relief. I want you to think about a name right now. Don’t overthink it. Just let the first one pop into your head. Maybe it’s that friend from college who used to sleep on your couch for weeks at a time. Maybe it’s the coworker you bonded with over shared trauma in the breakroom. Or maybe it’s someone you went to high school with, someone who knew the shape of your childhood before you even knew what your future might look like. Now, ask yourself: do you talk to them? Do you see them? If you did, would it feel like slipping into an old sweater that’s slightly too tight, or like meeting an old friend who has aged beautifully? Let’s sit with that. Because here is the truth that I have spent years trying to convince myself of, only to have my heart betray me again and again. Most of the people we love deeply are not meant to be in our lives forever. They are seasonal. And accepting that is one of the hardest, most liberating things you will ever do. We live in a culture that worships permanence. We want lifelong partners, career-long jobs, and best friends until the end. When a friendship fades, we assume something broke. We assume we failed. We assume they failed. But often, nothing broke at all. The season just ended. I remember when I was twenty-four, I had this friend named Sarah. We were inseparable. We had matching tattoos, or at least we planned to. We promised each other we’d be widows together if necessary. We shared every single thing. Our fears, our diets, our ex-boyfriends’ shoe sizes. It felt infinite. It felt like forever. Then, slowly, without any dramatic fight or betrayal, the conversations changed. I started getting a promotion. I moved across town. I started caring about things she didn’t care about anymore, and vice versa. One day, I realized I was checking my phone waiting for a text that wasn’t coming, and then another day, I stopped checking. It wasn’t malicious. She didn’t hate me. I didn’t hate her. We just grew in different directions. And when I finally accepted that she was a chapter, not the whole book, I felt this incredible weight lift off my chest. I stopped trying to force the square peg of our current selves into the round hole of our past dynamic. What did that cost you? That guilt. That anxiety. That feeling of being abandoned. But the cost of holding on was higher than the cost of letting go. Because holding on kept me stuck in a version of myself that no longer existed. There is actually science behind this, though it feels more like poetry. Sociologists call it 'circadian rhythms of friendship.' Your social circle naturally shrinks and changes as you age. In your twenties, you’re gathering data. You’re testing out identities. You need many voices to help you figure out who you are. But as you move into your thirties and forties, your needs shift. You don’t need ten people to tell you you’re funny; you need two people who know exactly why you cried last Tuesday. The diversity of your twenties gives way to the depth of your maturity. This isn’t a loss. It’s an evolution. When we cling to friendships that have served their purpose, we are essentially refusing to evolve. We are asking our friends to stay frozen in time with us. And that is a heavy burden to place on anyone. It’s unfair to them, and it’s exhausting for you. You start curating conversations instead of having them. You start editing yourself instead of expressing yourself. You are allowed to outgrow them. You are allowed to outgrow the versions of yourselves that those friendships were built on. One of the biggest lies we tell ourselves is that drifting away is a form of betrayal. We think, 'If they really loved me, they would fight to keep this.' But love isn’t always enough to sustain proximity. Sometimes, love is enough to say goodbye with grace. I had a friend, Mark, who left the city for a job in another state. We tried. God, we tried. We scheduled video calls. We sent packages. We made promises. But the magic was gone. The spontaneity was replaced by logistics. The joy was replaced by obligation. And I resented him for it. I resented myself for trying so hard. It wasn’t until I stopped fighting the tide that I could appreciate the shore we had shared. I realized that his presence in my life had taught me how to be independent. It had taught me how to trust. It had taught me how to laugh until my ribs hurt. Those lessons remain. He doesn’t need to be here for them to count. Making peace with seasonality means honoring the gift without demanding the giver stay. It means saying thank you for the winter, even as you prepare for the spring. So, how do you actually do this? How do you stop mourning people who are still alive but no longer present? First, acknowledge the loss. Don’t minimize it. Say out loud, 'I miss us.' Mean it. Feel the ache. Then, release the expectation. Stop looking for the old dynamic in the new reality. Look at what is there now. Is there anything? If yes, celebrate it. If no, accept it. Second, curate your memory. Keep the photos. Keep the inside jokes. Put them in a box or a folder. Acknowledge that they are part of your history, but not necessarily your present. You can honor a season without living in it. Third, make space for the new. This is the scary part. If you keep your heart full of ghosts, you won’t have room for the people who are actually here. Who are you ignoring because you’re too busy missing someone else? Who is sitting across from you, ready to be known, while you’re mentally drafting letters to people who aren’t listening? This isn’t about being cold. It’s about being clear. Clarity is kindness. To yourself, and to them. Think about autumn. It’s beautiful precisely because it doesn’t last. If leaves stayed on the trees all year, they’d be brown and brittle. They fall so the tree can rest. They fall so new growth can happen in the spring. Friendships are the same. The ones that fade are making room for the ones that fit. The ones that dissolve are clearing space for connections that align with who you are becoming, not who you were. I find comfort in the idea that my life is a series of seasons. There was the Summer of College Friends. There was the Winter of Career Burnout. There was the Spring of New Beginnings. Each season had its people. Each person had their place. None of them were failures. They were all necessary. When you stop fighting the change, you stop feeling guilty for evolving. You stop feeling like you’re abandoning ship. You realize you’re just sailing to a new port. And the crew changes. The captain stays the same. You. So today, I invite you to look at your phone. Look at your contacts. Look at the faces in your mind. See who is still there. See who has drifted. Ask yourself: Am I holding onto this because it brings me joy? Or am I holding onto it because I’m afraid of being alone? Are you allowing yourself to grieve the end of a season, or are you pretending it’s still summer? You don’t have to cut anyone off. You don’t have to have a big conversation. You just have to let go of the timeline you thought you were supposed to follow. Let the friendship be what it was. Let it be enough. And then, turn around. Look at who is standing next to you. Right now. In this moment. That person deserves your full attention. Not your half-hearted nostalgia. Your full, present, imperfect attention. Because this season, too, is fleeting. And it’s yours. I’m Eden. Take care of yourself. And remember, it’s okay to let the leaves fall. They’ll grow back. Until next time.