Friendship Isn’t Disposable
“Toxic” has become a trendy word.
The kind we use like scissors.
Snip.
Cut.
Done.
If we label someone toxic, we get to walk away with clean hands.
No reflection. No responsibility. No messy middle.
Just: they were bad.
Case closed.
I spend an embarrassing amount of time on Pinterest looking up quotes for writing inspiration.
“Friendship quotes.”
“Loyalty quotes.”
“Girl gang quotes.”
But buried between the sweet ones are always the same bitter lines:
Some friends are like pennies — two-faced and worthless.
Choke them on the ashes of the dreams they burned.
It’s amazing how fast someone can become a stranger.
And every time I read those, my heart sinks a little.
Because those aren’t empowerment quotes.
They’re heartbreak quotes.
They’re grief quotes.
They’re written by people who loved deeply and got hurt.
Growing up, my mom used to say something about dating:
“There are only two options — you get married or you break up.”
I understood that early.
Boyfriends might not stay.
But friends?
Friends felt permanent.
Friends were the soft place to land after every breakup.
They were the constants. The safe ones. The forever ones.
So when a friendship ended, it hurt worse than any boyfriend ever did.
It felt like rejection.
Like failure.
Like what’s wrong with me?
And if I’m honest?
It also felt really good to blame them.
If it was their fault, then I didn’t have to look at myself.
If they were “toxic,” then I was innocent.
Blame became my soft landing.
Except it wasn’t soft.
It was cotton candy.
Looked comforting.
Dissolved immediately.
And then I was just on the floor. Alone.
A few years ago, I told my therapist about a “toxic” friendship.
She gently ruined my whole narrative.
She said,
“You can’t be in a toxic relationship by yourself. It takes two.”
Rude.
And also… correct.
Because dysfunction is rarely one villain and one saint.
It’s usually two humans.
Two nervous systems.
Two sets of wounds.
Two people missing each other in different ways.
That one sentence forced me to do something I hate:
Look at my part.
Not to shame myself.
Just to learn.
Because you can’t grow from a story where you’re always the victim.
But here’s the thing.
This isn’t really about toxic relationships.
Some people truly are unsafe.
Some relationships absolutely need to end.
That’s not what I’m talking about.
I’m talking about the good friends.
The ones with history.
The ones who showed up for you for years.
The ones who have cried on your kitchen floor and celebrated your wins and held your secrets.
What do we do when they disappoint us?
When they change?
When they hurt us?
When life happens and they don’t show up the way they used to?
Do we really toss them into the “toxic” pile too?
Because here’s what I’m learning at 40-something:
Friendship isn’t magic.
It’s maintenance.
No one teaches us how to do it.
There’s no class called “Conflict Resolution for Best Friends.”
We’re all just winging it with the skills we learned from childhood and TV shows and old wounds.
Which means we’re going to mess up.
A lot.
We will disappoint each other.
We will misunderstand each other.
We will go quiet when we should speak up.
We will say the wrong thing.
We will disappear sometimes.
Not because we don’t care.
But because we’re human.
So maybe friendship isn’t about finding people who never hurt us.
Maybe it’s about choosing the people we’re willing to work through the hurt with.
The ones worth hard conversations.
The ones worth grace.
The ones worth trying again.
The ones where, instead of waving the “I’m done” flag, we wave the “I’m staying” flag.
Even when it’s uncomfortable.
Especially then.
Because easy friendship isn’t real friendship.
Easy is just proximity.
Depth comes from staying.
The older I get, the more I see my closest friendships like quiet marriages.
Not dramatic.
Not perfect.
But committed.
A steady, “I’m not going anywhere.”
We forgive.
We repair.
We own our stuff.
We try again.
Over and over.
Not because it’s fun.
But because it’s sacred.
Because these people are gifts.
Because life is hard enough without walking it alone.
Because sometimes the bravest thing you can say to someone isn’t “goodbye.”
It’s:
“I’m still here.”
🤍 KEEP READING
If this resonated, you might also like:
🤍 The Real Cost of Avoiding Pain — on how blame can feel protective but actually keeps us stuck
🤍 What If “If They Wanted To, They Would” Wasn’t the Whole Story? — on nuance, timing, and resisting easy narratives
🤍 Simple, Not Easy — on why growth is rarely dramatic but almost always uncomfortable
