I Lost All My Friends, But Found Myself Instead

Let me get this straight: no, I didn’t murder anyone. I didn’t cheat, lie, or join a cult (though if one had free snacks, I might’ve considered). I just... slowly stopped showing up. Group chats became silent museums. Invites dried up. My phone turned from a buzzing social hub into a lonely rock. And somehow, weirdly, it felt like relief.

I know, I know—cue the tiny violins. But before you label me a socially allergic hermit, let me tell you something that the TED Talks forgot to mention: losing your friends, in a world obsessed with connection, can be the best damn thing that ever happened to you.

The Myth of Eternal Friendships

Growing up, we’re spoon-fed the idea that friendships are forever. You know, like the tattoo you regret or that cringey email address you made in middle school. We believe that if someone was your ride-or-die at 16, they should still be there when you’re 30, watching you cry over burnt toast and failed dreams.

But here’s a fun little truth bomb: people change. And when people change, friendships expire. Not always in a dramatic explosion, but often in quiet, awkward decay. No villain. No big betrayal. Just silence. And it’s normal. Let me repeat that in bold Comic Sans: It. Is. Normal.

So, What Happened?

Somewhere between adulting, existential crises, and learning to cook rice without Googling it, I realized I was exhausted. Not from life, but from pretending. Pretending to enjoy shallow conversations. Pretending that the group outings were fun. Pretending I didn't notice how transactional some friendships had become.

I started declining plans. Not in a dramatic, "I'm finding myself" kind of way. More like, "I think I’d rather stab my eye with a spork than go to another overpriced brunch where we pretend we’re not falling apart."

Guess what? The invites stopped coming.

The Awkward Silence Phase

Losing friends doesn’t come with a manual. There’s no funeral. Just awkward online sightings. A muted story. A like on a post from someone who used to know your deepest secrets but now barely knows your last name. It’s weird. And yes, it hurts. A lot.

You question yourself. Are you the problem? Did you change? Did they? Are you just difficult to love? (Spoiler: you’re not. You’re just finally being you.)

But here’s the plot twist no one sees coming: that silence? It becomes peace.

Meeting the Stranger in the Mirror

Without the noise, I started hearing my own voice. Not the one that says, "Don’t forget to reply to Karen," or "What will they think if you post this?" I mean the raw, unfiltered, slightly sarcastic narrator in my head. The one that had been drowned by groupthink and brunch mimosas.

I rediscovered hobbies I actually enjoy. Books that made me feel something. Music that didn’t trend on TikTok. Long walks where I didn’t have to make conversation or pretend I was okay.

It wasn’t just solitude. It was a slow, deep reconciliation with myself.

The Capitalist Lie of Constant Connection

Let’s be real: we’re sold this idea that loneliness is bad, terrifying, a thing to be fixed with subscriptions and scrolls. But being alone is not the same as being lonely. And being lonely, sometimes, is a detox.

Social media wants you addicted to reactions. Society wants you surrounded by people so you don’t wake up and question the circus.

But if you’re always connected to everyone else, when do you ever connect with yourself?

I Found Myself (And She’s Kinda Cool)

Turns out, I’m not that bad. I’m funny. I can cook a killer stir fry. I enjoy silence more than gossip. I value truth more than groupthink. And I realized: if you have to shrink yourself to keep a friendship alive, it’s not a friendship. It’s performance art.

Now, I’m not anti-friends. I still love humans. But I’m done with the noise. Done with one-sided loyalty. Done with connections that drain more than they give.

If You’re There Too, Welcome

If you’re reading this and nodding, maybe you’re there too. Maybe you’re in that silent phase, wondering if you’re broken.

You’re not.

You’re blooming. Quietly. Boldly. Without applause. And that is the most powerful thing you can do.

So here’s to losing what wasn’t meant to stay, and finding someone far better: you.

And hey, if you’re ever in my city, we can grab coffee..as long as we can sit in silence and not pretend to like small talk. Deal?