Losing my friends

My biggest fear didn't happen.

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Last month, when I was out of sorts from my recent breakup, my girlfriends swooped in with snacks and sympathy. I had planned to mope alone with my sad bowl of limp lettuce, but they appeared en masse with hugs and food. A friend piled enormous platters high with meats and cheese, crackers and dips, fruit and figs, chocolate-covered almonds and cookies the size of small boulders. When I saw the gorgeous trays of food, I felt so cared for that I nearly cried.

Why was I weeping over charcuterie? I’d known these ladies for a decade and we’d been through plenty of breakups together. I knew they’d show up if I asked, but I didn’t want to be an inconvenience. They had busy lives and small children and better things to do than listen to me mope about dating. At least, that’s what I told myself. Sometimes I still find it hard to believe that people will show up for me.

“That’s nonsense,” my friends said. “Have a cookie and tell us everything.”

Friends showed up with hugs and snacks. April 2023.

I have an old story about myself that friends are hard to come by. I was a shy child who often struggled to find her people. Every few years I picked up a fellow nerd or two, but there were long stretches of sitting alone at the lunch table. In college, it felt like I missed a cheat code to best friends and late-night hangs and everyone else was bonding while I was at the library.

I envied people with sprawling social circles, so it’s no surprise that I married one of those people straight out of college. My ex was an animated extrovert who made new friends wherever he went and invited them over for dinner. Our house was always full of interesting people, and his college friends were the bedrock of our social world in Brooklyn. Finally, I had the bustling social life that had felt so hard to crack.

My biggest fear of divorce was losing those friends, and it kept me frozen for years. My worries ran like this: If I decided to leave my marriage, would I take the blame and be banished? How many of my friendships, forged in the sprawling dinner parties we hosted as a couple, would survive once I was on my own? Would I still be invited to events or would I drop quietly by the wayside, a lost sock without a pair?

When I finally decided to divorce in 2020, I braced myself to become a pariah. Instead, something entirely unexpected happened. All four of my ex’s closest college friends reached out to me directly. They were supporting him and they supported me too.

“Do what you need to do for you, we are there for him,” said the first.
“By the time you’ve finally decided to leave, it’s time,” said the second.
“The times in your home were special to me, I love you both,” said the third.
“You are always still welcome in my home,” said the fourth.

Here’s what they were all saying: We are not picking sides. We love you both and want you both to be happy. You need not lose these friendships along with your marriage. Those kind messages meant the world to me back then. What I didn’t know yet is that their words would become the opening lines in a new story about myself.

Wander in the NY Botanical Gardens. April 2023.

Three years later, I found myself in another breakup, gentler than the first but painful nonetheless. I was stunned when more than 25 friends reached out to offer support. Did I want to talk? Or walk in the gardens without talking? Did I want to snuggle a dog? A bunny? Did I want to come to Boston? To DC? Did I want to play with plants? Sing karaoke? Make pizza? Go out to dinner? Eat chocolate cookies for dinner?

I didn’t really want to do any of those things, but I did them anyway and I was glad I did. It turns out that frolicking in orchids and belting out Summer Lovin’ is far more healing than moping alone with lettuce. All these lovely people listened without judgement and challenged my self-doubt gremlins that told me I had the romantic skills of a turnip and was destined to die alone:

“I feel like you are underestimating the romantic skills of turnips,” said one.
“I’ll scare away the gremlins with my terrible karaoke tonight,” said another.
“Don’t listen to those little rascals. You’re a 10 and you’ll never die alone,” said a third.

I was stunned by the flood of support. My friends reminded me that heartbreak is a natural part of opening myself back to love—and that nothing ever turns out quite the way we think. Not long ago, I had been terrified to lose my friends. My old story kept me stuck: change is too hard and I’ll lose too much. Instead, the opposite happened.

As I withdrew my energy from a troubled marriage and replanted it in my own life, my friendships flourished. A few fell away, but many more deepened and new ones took root. Year by year, as I built a more joyful and authentic life, I attracted more joyful and authentic people. Friends didn’t just like me as part of a couple; they liked me.

That new story is still sinking in. I spent 38 years feeling insecure about friends and our old stories can be stubborn sometimes. But with every message and hug, I unwind more of the Lonely Liz story and relax into Team Liz. Beginning again means learning to trust new stories about yourself—and living into them until they feel true.

One of the unexpected joys of starting over has been hearing from others on similar journeys. If something resonates with you, I’d love for you to leave a comment, drop me an email or share a post with a friend!

Liz is a writer and photographer based in Brooklyn.