Grieving a friendship that’s still alive.

There is a quiet kind of grief that doesn’t get spoken about enough—the kind that comes from losing someone who is still alive. Not through death, not through distance that feels natural or expected, but through a conscious decision to walk away. And what I’ve learned, slowly and honestly, is that even when you know you need to move on, there is still grief in leaving. There is still an ache. There is still a softness that lingers where something once lived. Because the truth is, the only way through it… is through it. And that’s the part no one really prepares you for. There is something incredibly strange about holding two truths at the same time. On one hand, you’re carrying all the reasons you know the relationship can’t continue—the patterns, the imbalance, the ways you outgrew each other, or maybe the ways it slowly stopped feeling safe or aligned. And on the other hand, you’re holding all the memories. All the laughter. The shared history. The inside jokes. The version of you that existed within that friendship. And those two realities don’t cancel each other out—they coexist. And that is what makes it so complex.

I experienced this in a way that truly shook me. A friendship ending with someone I had known for over two decades. Twenty years of knowing someone… that’s not something you just close the door on and move on from lightly. That’s a whole chapter of your life. That’s shared growth, shared time, shared versions of yourselves that only the two of you understand. Looking back now, I can hold that experience with far more empathy—for them, and for myself. But in the moment, when I was standing right in the middle of it, it was painful in a way I struggled to articulate. It was heavy with regret, frustration, confusion. I replayed conversations in my mind. I questioned my actions, their actions, what I could have done differently, what I should have seen sooner. And what made it even harder was how invisible that grief felt. Because our society has a way of validating romantic heartbreak in a way it doesn’t extend to friendship. If you go through a breakup, people understand. You’re allowed to be sad. You’re allowed to pause, to grieve openly, to say “I’m not okay.” But a friendship breakup? It’s almost treated as something smaller. Easier. Less significant. And yet… it can hurt just as deeply. There were moments where I felt almost embarrassed by how much it affected me. I found myself thinking, why does this hurt so much? It’s not like we were in a romantic relationship. But the truth is, love exists in many forms. And losing someone you once loved deeply—platonically or not—will always leave an impact.

Grief doesn’t measure itself based on labels. And for me, the way I process that grief is by sitting with it. Fully. Honestly. I don’t rush it. I don’t try to distract myself out of it. I allow it to move through me, even when it feels intense, even when it lingers longer than I would like. And I won’t pretend—that process is not always easy. It can feel heavy, isolating, slow. But it’s the only way I’ve found that allows me to truly release something, rather than carry it quietly with me. And over time, clarity began to settle in. I had to be honest with myself about the reality of that friendship. It wasn’t healthy. Not in the way I needed it to be. And I had to accept that some endings are not meant to be revisited. Some people are part of your life for a season, even if that season lasts years. And sometimes, growth asks you to walk away from what once felt familiar. One of the hardest truths I had to face was recognising my own patterns within that relationship. You know when you reach a point in your life where you can no longer ignore the patterns you’ve been repeating? When you start to see yourself clearly—not critically, but honestly? That’s where I found myself. I realised that I had spent a lot of time trying to impress someone I deeply valued. Trying to be seen. Trying to be acknowledged in ways that were never fully returned. And that awareness was both painful and freeing. Because often, when someone doesn’t fully see you, it’s not because you are not worthy of being seen—it’s because they are limited in their capacity to see beyond themselves. And once I understood that something shifted within me. I stopped taking it so personally. I stopped questioning my worth.

I started choosing myself differently. Through doing the work—focusing on my own path, my own growth, my own approval—I began to outgrow that pattern. And that, more than anything, has been one of the most relieving parts of this journey. Because now, I know who I am. I know that I am vibrant. That I am creative. That I have depth, softness, and a life that is beautiful in its own way. And I no longer need someone else to confirm that for me. I don’t need to be seen to know that I exist fully. I don’t need to be chosen to know that I am worthy. I am no longer a footnote in my own life. And that realization… it changes everything. What I seek now is balance. Not perfection, not intensity—but harmony. A life where things exist in a way that feels aligned, where relationships feel mutual, where love—whether in friendships, creativity, or the way I experience the world—feels expansive rather than draining. I’ve learned to fall deeply in love with my own life. With my art. With the way I express myself. With the landscapes around me, the people who show up with presence and care. And at the same time, I’ve learned to hold it all lightly. To love fully, but not cling. To appreciate but not lose myself. Because that’s what growth has taught me. That sometimes, letting go is not a failure of love. It’s an act of self-respect. And even though there is grief in that—real, honest grief—there is also peace waiting on the other side. A quieter, steadier kind of peace. The kind that comes from choosing yourself, even when it hurts.