I’ve Only Had One True Friend as an Adult

Kathryn grew demanding, calling and texting many times a day. If I didn’t respond within a few hours, I would receive another text or voicemail: “I am worried about you. Please let me know you are OK.”

I felt like a child late for curfew. I didn’t want to feel like my communication had deadlines. I didn’t want anyone worrying about me if I didn’t respond quickly enough. The pressure grew, and the friendship became more of a job than a joy. I’d reply with, “Sorry, so busy, I will get in touch with you soon,” but she would email me and ask that I read a piece of her writing and help her with an ending. I loved Kathryn, but I hated our new dynamic.

I tried to set boundaries, but I did so in an indirect, even passive-aggressive, way. I should have done so clearly, intentionally and without fear or hesitation. I should have said, “Kathryn, I don’t have time for daily calls and texts. I love you, but you are asking for more than I can give. Can we agree to check in once a week?”

But even at 43 years old, that was too damn scary and uncomfortable for me, and my ego had better plans. How dare she be so demanding? I thought. Doesn’t she understand how busy I am? How I’ve already helped her so much? My thoughts were all me, me, me, and when I was certain that Kathryn was at fault for not respecting my boundaries, I made the very intentional decision to ghost her. I blocked her everywhere.

Time went on, and I lived my life without Kathryn. Sometimes I thought about her and how rejected she must have felt, but my ego quickly assured me that she deserved it. There were times when I missed her, and my ego convinced me she was too demanding. When Kathryn popped into my mind, my ego promptly pushed her out because the thought of losing the friendship, of intentionally and rudely ending the friendship, was too painful for me. Life went on. At least it did for me.

Kathryn wasn’t so lucky. Her life was abruptly ended by cancer. I learned about it from a Facebook post and read her obituary in complete disbelief. My ego couldn’t help me anymore. There was no justification for what I had done. She had been diagnosed with cancer and I hadn’t known. I didn’t get to say “goodbye” or “thank you” or “I love you.” I didn’t even know about her wake and funeral because I was living in the comfort of my own avoidance. Did she think of me? Did she try to contact me? Did she hate me?

In that moment and in many moments since, I have hated myself for what I did. I was a coward. I was selfish. I was ignorant. I forgot just how precious life is. And now I have to do what I was too scared to do before: hold myself accountable and accept that there will never be a reunion or an “I am sorry” text or another conversation with the best friend I ever had. I have to look in the mirror and know that I am the only person to blame for that.

Maybe one day I will forgive myself. Maybe in a world other than this I will see Kathryn again and tell her in some nonhuman way that I am sorry. That I was weak and scared and flawed. That ghosting her didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate her or love her. It meant I wasn’t strong enough to put in the work our relationship deserved. It meant I didn’t think I could ask for space and keep the relationship. I was too accustomed to running and avoiding and taking the easy way out. Maybe someday Kathryn will look down and know that I still love her and miss her, and that if I could rewind time, I would do better.

Or maybe Kathryn is looking down now, realizing that she left me with yet another lesson, one I hope to never forget. I have learned, in the deepest way possible, that life is short, that true friendship is rare, and that sometimes, it really is too late.

*Name changed.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.