Sydney told me she’s been battling a friendship breakup.

Not a falling out that fades quietly, but the kind that leaves you blinking at the ceiling at 1 a.m., wondering how someone who knew your laugh, your silence, and your heart could turn away so completely.

“I know she did me dirty,” Sydney said. “But I still miss her. I miss when we’d hang out and talk for hours. She felt like a sister.”

The ache wasn’t just about losing a friend — it was about losing the version of herself that existed in that friendship.

She knows she’s in the right, yet she’s changed. Her guard is up. Her laughter doesn’t come as easily. Even her family says she sounds “corporate” now, like she’s on a permanent work call.

“I want to let people in,” she said. “But it’s been betrayal after betrayal. And if it keeps happening, maybe I’m the problem.”

I understood that sentence too well.

I’ve felt that same guilt, wondering if maybe I’m the common denominator, because some friendships took me on a one-way train straight to burnout. Sydney and I are the same: we love deeply, we open doors quickly, and we make everyone feel at home.

But not everyone deserves that kind of access.

We lock our doors for a reason. We don’t open them to everyone who knocks, only when we trust what’s on the other side. We should treat our hearts the same way. And when we accidentally let the wrong person in, it’s okay to show them out gently.

No drama, no grand speeches. Just slow distance.
Smile when you see them out. Be kind. Let the friendship die a natural death. So when they’re asked about you later, all they can say is, “We just grew apart.”

And when they’re gone, the real work begins, picking up the pieces of your trust.

Don’t do what I did, shave your head with a shaving stick and spiral into a breakdown (long story, healing now). I’ve since learned, thanks to therapy (shoutout to my doctor), that losing someone, friend or not, requires a shift in perspective.

When I lose a relationship and know it wasn’t my fault, I remind myself that something bigger is on its way.
If you don’t lose what no longer fits, there’s no space for what will.

It’s still grief, mourning someone who’s very much alive.
But healing starts when you realize that their absence made room for your peace.