I Thought Losing Friends Meant I Failed

I used to think that if a friendship ended, it was because I failed.

Not because we grew apart.Not because life shifted.But because I wasn’t enough.

That belief didn’t come from nowhere—it was rooted deep in my childhood. In my family, love felt conditional. My parents didn’t trust outsiders, and they didn’t ask for help. Ever. We were taught to carry burdens, not share them. To swallow pain quietly, without complaint. So I did.

I learned early: don’t be a burden. Don’t ask for too much. Don’t make mistakes.

If I believed that I had to be perfect to be loved by my parents, how could I believe I deserved to be loved by anyone else?

So I grew up thinking friendships were something I had to earn—and constantly prove I was worthy of. I was the friend who gave too much, who never asked for anything in return. I’d be there for everyone else, but when I was the one falling apart, I disappeared. I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. I thought that being grateful for people meant never needing them.

And when I did mess up—missed a birthday, forgot to follow up, said the wrong thing—I didn’t try to repair the friendship. I pulled away. I assumed they’d disown me, the way I’d been conditioned to believe love disappears when you stop performing perfectly.

It’s a painful pattern: punishing myself before anyone else has the chance to.

I didn’t get close to many people—not because I didn’t want to—but because I didn’t think I deserved to. If I felt like a burden to my own family, how could I imagine being accepted, flaws and all, by someone who didn’t share my blood?

So when I finally found my first real girlfriend group in my twenties, it felt like winning the lottery. I finally belonged. I finally mattered.

But then... they started getting married. Building lives I didn’t quite fit into. And little by little, the invitations stopped coming. The group text quieted. I wasn’t married. I wasn’t a mom. I was just... the single friend. And eventually, I wasn’t in the group at all.

I told myself it was because I hadn’t kept up. That I had failed again. But deep down, I knew the truth: people will always do what’s in their best interest. That doesn’t make them bad. It just makes them human.

Still, that didn’t stop the old narrative from resurfacing—you’re not worth the effort.

For years, I used that belief to push people away before they could drift first. Or I found small reasons to disappear—ghosting slowly, quietly, protectively.  Because if I ended it first, at least I could control the sting.

But here’s what I’m learning now: Friendship breakups aren’t always personal. And even when they are, they’re not always permanent. Sometimes, they’re just growth mirrors—showing us who we were, what we needed, and what we’re still healing.

These days, I’m trying something new. I’m building community—not out of obligation, but out of hope. The kind of hope that says maybe I don’t have to be perfect to be loved. Maybe asking for help doesn’t make me a burden. Maybe I’m allowed to show up messy, and still belong.

And maybe—just maybe—some friendships end not because you failed, but because you’ve outgrown the version of yourself who thought you had to earn love in the first place.