Not Every Friendship Deserves Forever

Deep Brew | When growth pulls you in different directions, some relationships won’t keep up.

There was a time when I believed some friendships could last forever. The kind of bond that begins in childhood, weathers every storm, and becomes a permanent fixture in your life. You know… like in the 1995 classic Now and Then. But recently, I found myself sitting across from a friend who once felt like my closest confidante—someone who had stood beside me through the milestones that shaped who I am.

And now? Well… now, it felt like I was sitting across from someone who only knew the outline of my life, as if the years between us had turned into polite bullet points rather than shared understanding.

This wasn’t just a fleeting moment of disappointment. It was a reckoning.

As we sipped our drinks, the conversation drifted—her new car, her child’s extracurriculars, and a few surface-level complaints about work. Meanwhile, I sat there with something far heavier bubbling inside: I’m queer. Surprise! At 38, a married woman with two kids and a husband who is, without question, the most cisgender, heterosexual man I’ve ever met, this realization isn’t exactly a Pinterest-worthy coming-out story. Let me tell you, it’s complicated arriving at queerness when your day starts with a school drop-off and ends with debating whether to watch Bluey or a rerun of Cheers.

I had hoped this friend—this person who had shared so much of my life—might be the one to help me unpack the joy, terror, and messy beauty of this truth. But as I tried to steer the conversation toward something deeper, it felt like tossing pebbles into an endless, shallow pool.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t dig. Instead, the moment felt like a dress rehearsal for vulnerability, with no audience to care if I delivered my lines.

BTW, is this mic on? Testing, one… two..mic check.

And that’s when it hit me: this friend doesn’t really know me anymore. She knows the version of me from a decade ago, maybe longer—the safe version, the predictable one. The one, as Danielle Prescod thoughtfully put it, the token Black girl. But the me sitting at that table? The one piecing together professional stressors, queerness, womanhood, and motherhood while still getting everyone to dance practice on time? She didn’t see that person at all.

When Friendships Drift

The quiet death of depth in our friendship mirrored a broader truth: we are no longer in the same chapter of our lives.

Research shows that life transitions—like marriage, career shifts, or parenthood—are a leading cause of friendships drifting apart. According to a Pew Research Center study, while 61% of U.S. adults say having close friends is essential for a fulfilling life, many adults find themselves prioritizing fewer, deeper relationships as they age.

I’ve spent the last decade doing self-work—unpacking my identity as a queer Black woman, confronting the systemic weight of racism and sexism, and learning to find joy even in the messy contradictions of my life. She, on the other hand, has stayed tethered to the rhythms of a life she’s long known.

It’s Midwestern suburban motherhood in its most curated form: endless debates about Lululemon leggings, Stanley cups, and who’s organizing teacher gifts. And honestly? It fills me with rage.

Because let’s be clear: this isn’t the life of women in Appalachia or our nation’s urban core, where survival is the priority. This is the carefully filtered world of wine nights, meal kits, and Instagram captions about “self-care.” It’s the upside-down T of suburban economic opportunity, where lawns are manicured, and the biggest crisis is deciding between Starbucks gift cards or succulents for Teacher Appreciation Week.

And all the while, just a mile down the road, there are families fighting to keep the lights on, to access clean water, to simply survive.

To live in this bubble is one thing. But to stay blind to its borders—blissfully unaware or willfully indifferent—is something else entirely.

Meanwhile, the world is literally on fire. Climate change, systemic racism, attacks on queer and trans rights—it’s all happening in real-time. Not that I expect every conversation to turn into a symposium on global inequities, but the relentless triviality? The bubble of comfort? It suffocating.

The Exhaustion of Performing Friendship

Brené Brown writes in The Gifts of Imperfection (available on Bookshop),

“Authenticity is a collection of choices that we have to make every day. It’s about the choice to show up and be real.”

But what happens when authenticity feels unsafe?

As a Black woman navigating predominantly white spaces, I’ve often felt the weight of performance in friendships. The quiet exhaustion of being someone’s “Black friend,” someone whose presence they wield as a shield against accusations of bias, is a unique kind of loneliness.

At the same time, the tension of navigating friendships that don’t allow for full authenticity isn’t limited to race or identity. Shannon Watts reflects on this in her essay, “My Year of Following Expert’s Advice on How to Make Friends,” where she explores the gap between acquaintances and true connections. Quoting Anaïs Nin, she writes:

“Each friend represents a world in us. But for those worlds to be real, they have to hold our full selves—not sanitized versions of who we are.”

This is the crux of meaningful friendship: the ability to bring your full, unvarnished self to the table, knowing it will be met with curiosity and care, rather than discomfort or dismissal. Whether shaped by racial dynamics, differing values, or simply the weight of unspoken expectations, the inability to do so creates an exhausting performance that erodes trust over time.

The Ladder of Friendship

Midlife has a way of shining a spotlight on what truly matters—how we spend our time, who we spend it with, and what we’re willing to let go of. As I reflected on my shifting friendships, I began to see them through the lens of Aristotle’s ladder of friendship, a framework he described in his Nicomachean Ethics nearly 2,500 years ago. Aristotle divides friendships into three categories: friendships of utility, friendships of pleasure, and perfect friendships (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy).

• Friendships of utility are transactional. They exist because both parties derive something tangible—like support or resources—from the relationship.

• Friendships of pleasure are built on mutual enjoyment, shared activities, or common interests. These friendships thrive as long as the source of pleasure remains.

• Perfect friendships, Aristotle explains, are rare and enduring. They are rooted in mutual care, shared virtue, and a commitment to helping one another grow.

Reflecting on Aristotle’s framework, I began to see how my friendships have shifted. Many that once revolved around shared pleasures—Netflix binges, chatting about the nuances of dating, commiserating over early motherhood—have naturally faded as our lives have taken different directions. These changes, while bittersweet, reflect what Arthur Brooks describes in The Atlantic as the natural narrowing of our social circles as we prioritize depth over breadth. (Arthur Brooks, The Atlantic).

Modern research supports this ancient wisdom. A U.S. Surgeon General report highlights that adults tend to prioritize fewer but deeper connections as they age. These relationships—what Aristotle might consider "perfect friendships"—are the ones most associated with happiness and longevity.

Navigating the Conflict

I haven’t told this friend, “You’re no longer a perfect friend.” What good would that do? She isn’t a bad person, and this isn’t about assigning blame. Besides, I have a tendency to resist binaries in my life—friendship included. Relationships are messy, layered, and rarely fit into neat categories. That said, I’ve stopped placing the weight of expectation on a friendship that can no longer hold it.

Kellie Carter Jackson reminds us in We Refuse, A Forceful History of Black Resistance that resistance can take many forms. In her chapter on joy, she writes about the transformative power of claiming creative space in a world that seeks to erase you. Friendship, like joy, is an act of care. It’s about creating spaces that celebrate our wholeness.

For me, resistance means freeing myself from the obligation to shrink, to pretend, or to keep placing the weight of expectation on friendships that no longer nurture me. Perfect friendships are part of that resistance—a refusal to settle for connections that don’t honor our full selves, even if other kinds of friendships still serve a different purpose.

The Beautiful Mess of Friendship

Arthur Brooks notes that real friendships are often built not on shared circumstances but on shared values. The people who remain in our lives are the ones who see us as we are and walk with us as we grow. Perfect friendships are not about quantity—they are about quality.

I wish I could tell you that I know how to navigate this perfectly. I wish I had a map, a set of rules, a clear script for when and how to let go of these ties. But the truth is, I don’t. This is messy, uncharted terrain. What I do know is that growth requires hard choices, and that the friendships worth keeping are the ones that can hold the fullness of who we are.

So, ask yourself: Are your friendships serving you in this chapter of your life? Or are you holding onto them out of habit, obligation, or fear of letting go?

Time is finite. Let’s spend it with the people who see us, hear us, and walk with us through the complexities of who we are.