“Why I Cut Off My Toxic Best Friend”

We met in high school, and from the beginning, it felt like destiny. We clicked instantly—laughing at the same jokes, texting constantly, swearing we’d be “ride or die” forever. I genuinely believed she was my soulmate in friendship. For years, she was the one person I called for everything—heartbreaks, panic attacks, family drama, even small wins like getting an A on a test. We were closer than close.

But sometimes, closeness blurs into something darker.

Let’s call her J.

At first, her comments seemed harmless. A little sarcasm here, a playful jab there. “You’re so dramatic.” “Why do you always make things about you?” “Must be nice to have a perfect little life.” I brushed it off. That’s just how she was, I told myself. She had a rough home life. She was just “honest.” She “kept it real.”

But “real” started to feel like emotional erosion.

She needed me constantly—but never had time for me. When I cried, she got annoyed. When I achieved something, she changed the subject. If I went a day without texting, I’d wake up to guilt-tripping messages: “Guess I don’t matter anymore.” I started shrinking myself, keeping things to myself, walking on eggshells to avoid setting her off. She had a way of making me feel like I was the bad friend, the selfish one, the one who wasn’t trying hard enough.

The scariest part? I believed her.

Toxic friendships don’t usually look like movie villains. They look like people who once made you laugh until your stomach hurt. They look like people who held your hand through your worst nights. That’s what makes it so confusing. You keep clinging to the memory of who they were, hoping that version of them will come back.

But they don’t.

The breaking point came quietly. One night, after a long, emotionally draining day, I sent her a simple message: “Hey, today’s been rough. I just need a little space.” Her response?

“Oh wow, you’re having a rough day? Imagine being me. You don’t even know what real stress is.”

I stared at my phone, heart racing. I felt shame, guilt, and then—clarity. For the first time in years, I saw it for what it was. This wasn’t just a bad day. This was a pattern. A cycle. Every time I reached out with vulnerability, she punished me for it.

So I stepped back.

I didn’t ghost her. I didn’t send a dramatic “goodbye forever” text. I simply stopped giving her access to me. No more midnight vent sessions. No more walking on eggshells. No more apologies for things I didn’t do.

When she noticed, she lashed out. “You’re fake.” “You abandoned me.” “After everything I did for you.”

But I stayed silent. And in that silence, I heard something I hadn’t in years: my own voice.

Cutting her off wasn’t easy. Grieving a friendship is a special kind of heartbreak. It doesn’t come with closure. There are no break-up songs for best friends. But still, I grieved. I cried over the shared playlists, the inside jokes, the memories that felt like home. I missed the girl she used to be. I missed the girl I used to be with her.

But I didn’t miss the pain.

Since walking away, I’ve learned that not all friendships are meant to last forever. Some are there to teach you hard truths: how to set boundaries, how to recognize manipulation, how to stop mistaking control for care.

The people who hurt us the most often come disguised as the people who once saved us. That’s what makes it so hard to let go. But letting go isn’t cruel—it’s necessary. Especially when keeping someone in your life means abandoning yourself.

Today, I surround myself with people who make me feel safe. People who clap for me when I win, and sit with me when I fall apart. People who never make me question my worth.

If you’re reading this and you’re wondering if you’re in a toxic friendship, ask yourself: Do I feel drained after talking to them? Do I feel small? Do I feel like I’m never enough?

If the answer is yes, it’s not your job to fix them.

Sometimes, healing means walking away.

And sometimes, the people who hurt us most… are the ones we once trusted the most.