Walking Away To Protect My Peace: Lessons On Friendship

As an adult, making friends can be incredibly hard—at least, that has been my experience. This is my truth, not a universal fact. This past year, I walked away from a ten-year friendship, and I have not looked back or regretted it for a single second.

For a long time, I believed these individuals would be my friends for life. But when I saw them for the first time in over five years, I realized something painful yet freeing: they were never truly my friends. We met in college and were together almost every day, but I always felt more like a burden than a blessing in their lives. I never felt safe being my authentic self. Instead, I felt pressured to be “cool,” “sexy,” and laid-back. And whenever I let my guard down, they would look at me as if I had said something completely out of line.

Looking back, I can now name what I couldn’t see then—subtle bullying disguised as jokes, silence, and side-eyes. I didn’t fully realize it until our last encounter.

There were six of us in total. I was the oldest, and the youngest was getting married. When she asked us to be in her wedding, I initially felt honored. But as time passed, reality set in: we hadn’t truly spoken in years. I barely knew her fiancé. I barely knew her life. Still, I ignored the red flags. I was just excited to be with my “friends” again.

I prepared for the wedding with hope. I brought decorations to the hotel room, imagining an authentic girls’ night—laughing, reminiscing, celebrating the bride. That moment never came. Instead, we attended the rehearsal dinner and spoke to one another like strangers… because that’s exactly what we were. Yes, we had a group chat. Yes, we texted occasionally. But there was no real consistency, no depth.

I invited the bride to stop by the hotel room if she had time—no pressure. She didn’t come. It hurt, but I swallowed it. We grabbed some alcohol, got dressed, and went to bed.

We were all in very different seasons of life. Some had children. One was getting married. Others were single. I was newly single. I thought our bond was strong enough to rise above those differences. I was wrong.

The day of the wedding, the distance became undeniable. The bride barely interacted with us. Conversations felt forced. When I shared pieces of my recent breakup, I was met with looks of annoyance—as if my vulnerability was an inconvenience.

When the final bridesmaids arrived, the energy shifted even more. One woman, whom I’ve known my entire life, has consistently bullied me out of what I now recognize as deep insecurity and envy. And once she arrived, the one person I thought I was closest to began switching up on me too. I truly believed that with age, that behavior would have ended—but it hadn’t.

As the day went on, clarity replaced confusion. I was always the one reaching out, trying to plan time together. Schedules never aligned. Effort was rarely mutual. In college, they lived together, and I didn’t—largely because I couldn’t afford it at the time. I told myself the separation was healthy. But in hindsight, I see how excluded I always felt.

I was also deeply vulnerable that day. I had just ended a relationship less than a week prior—one I believed would last forever. It took everything in me to even attend the wedding. At the time, I was devastated. Today, I can say with full confidence: thank You, God, for closing that door.

At the reception, after years of tolerating jokes at my expense, I went quiet. No one asked if I was okay. Instead, they joked that I was mad. That was my breaking point. I changed my clothes, called an Uber, cried the entire ride home, talked to God, stopped at Five Guys because the reception food was DISTINGUISHING, and spent the rest of the night letting it all out.

One person reached out to ask if I was okay. I lied and said I was fine. Later, the group chat lit up—blaming me for the misplaced bridal gift, then sharing photos and videos of how much fun they were having without me. I went to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up and chose myself. I blocked every single one of them, deleted their numbers, and never looked back.

For years, I tolerated mistreatment because our families were connected and because I wanted friendship so badly that I accepted pain as the price of belonging. This experience taught me a lesson I will carry for the rest of my life:

I want friendships that are reciprocal.

I want friendships where I can pour love and receive it back.

I want friendships where I am safe to be myself.

What This Taught Me About Friendship

• Consistency matters more than history. Just because someone has known you for years does not mean they deserve continued access to you.

• Pay attention to how you feel after interactions. Friendships should not leave you feeling small, anxious, or exhausted.

• Reciprocity is not too much to ask for. If you are always the one reaching out, adjusting, or apologizing—pause and reflect.

• Growth reveals misalignment. As we evolve, some relationships naturally expire. That doesn’t make you wrong—it makes you honest.

• Protecting your peace is an act of self-respect. Walking away is not weakness; sometimes, it’s obedience.

Today, some of my colleagues show me more genuine care than those friends ever did. I used to think I needed a large circle. Now I know I only need a few people who truly see me, love me, and embrace me as I am.

My circle is small, intentional, and full of peace.

If you are in a friend group where your effort is not being met—sis, protect your peace. The friendships meant for you will find you, align with you, and pour into you just as deeply as you pour into them.

I pray you have that—or that you find it soon.