We talk about breaking up with an abusive ex or cutting off a toxic family member, but why don’t we ever talk about when our friends go rogue?
When we think of the word “friendship,” it should mean safety – a place where loyalty meets mutual respect. Yet, for nearly a decade, I have found myself stuck in an endless loop of chaos, guilt and emotional exhaustion with someone who I once considered my second family. When I ended that friendship, it wasn’t an impulsive decision I made or a result of a bad falling out – it stemmed from enduring years of one-sided effort, avoiding uncomfortable truths and growing in two different locations.
As a journalism student at CSUN, learning how to balance coursework and family responsibilities, while also confronting personal demons, has taught me the value of stability. Unfortunately, as someone in my late 20s, I have learned the hard way that not all friendships we forge when we’re 16 to 17 years old evolve with us.
While some girls do end up being maids of honor at each other’s weddings or become godmothers to their friends’ children, others just calcify. No matter how much you change, they tend to be stuck in the same old fights and power dynamics.
As I sit here and reflect on the situation now, I realize that the warning signs were always present. My now ex-best friend – let’s call her Meena – was someone who didn’t like conflict but always found herself surrounded by it. To put it bluntly, she was a people-pleaser, meaning she would do everything possible to ensure that everybody stayed on good terms with each other, no matter how much we may dislike each other at that moment.
Her best friend, Heather, was the exact opposite: She was fiery, blunt and would bend heaven and hell for anyone she cared about, even if it meant going scorched-earth on the person who hurt her friends and family. I’d like to say I was somewhere right in the middle, but that is far from accurate.
When I was a teenager, I was definitely just as abrasive as Heather, if not more so. There were times when my abrasiveness caused me to pick fights for no reason, throwing teenage hissy fits that stemmed from a deep-seated jealousy rather than genuine anger. Deep down, I think I was envious of how open and confident Meena seemed to be. She had a way of expressing her feelings, even if it caused chaos, or an energy that seemed to draw people, especially men.
Truthfully, I didn’t have that same freedom of expression or charm that she did. While I was charming and kind, it was a facade to hide how quiet and guarded I really was. I was also afraid of being judged if I said the wrong thing. My frustration with Meena often landed sideways – whether it was through snarky comments, defensive arguments or passive-aggressive jokes that landed harder than expected.
At 16, I thought that was how friends argued – messy but fixable. In hindsight, it wasn’t normal; it was draining. Every fight ended the same way: somebody cries, somebody ends up apologizing and Meena has to try and hold everyone together. For a while, I relied on her because she was “the fixer,” and she made it too easy to allow the cycle to keep repeating itself.
Our differences weren’t only emotional; we also had different ideologies. I grew up in a family that encouraged curiosity and debate. We talked about politics at dinner, religion in the car and education everywhere else. My parents strongly valued education, seeing learning as an act of self-respect. However, Meena did not see it that way. She often brushed off higher education as pretentious, and while she never said it to me directly, I could tell that she thought I took my education and values too seriously.
When I left for college, I assumed distance would somehow bring us closer. I was wrong. As I put more focus into my classes and future, the same patterns followed me – pointless fights, bruised egos and long, hollow apologies that felt more like excuses. By the time I left for Washington, D.C. in June of 2023 for my journalism internship, the truth became impossible to ignore. Space was not healing our friendship; it was revealing the cracks that I was too blind to see.
It wasn’t until I studied abroad in Seoul the following year that realization solidified like a cold stone in my stomach. Being 16 hours ahead made it harder to stay connected, and I stopped trying to fill every silence. The more I invested in my work and studies, the less energy I had for recycled arguments. I began to see that I’d been clinging to the idea of who we used to be – three teenagers with endless time and patience and not who we’d actually become.
By the time I came home for winter break, I knew that part of my life had ended long before I said it out loud. The friendship had turned into a habit, not a connection. Letting it go wasn’t impulsive or cruel; it was a decision long overdue.
Friendship breakups don’t come with the same closure as romantic ones. There’s no big argument or final text that makes it official – just a slow fading away until one day you realize you’ve stopped trying. For a long time, I felt guilty about that. I wondered if cutting ties made me a bad friend, or if walking away meant I’d given up too easily. But the older I get, the more I understand that growing up means learning to outgrow people too.
What people don’t seem to realize about friendships is that when they’re broken, they can cut as deeply as any romantic split. Losing a friend can leave the same kind of grief, only quieter – no labels, no closure, just a lingering ache where familiarity used to be. And yet, sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is recognize when something has run its course and let it go without resentment.
In the end, I didn’t lose a friend as much as I found clarity. I don’t hold anything against Meena or Heather, but I can see now that our friendship was unhealthy in more ways than one. It wasn’t just me who needed to move on – it was all of us. Maybe real growth isn’t about fixing what’s broken, but knowing when to walk away and wishing everyone well from a distance.
