A decade ago, I encountered a young woman named Sarah. Initially, I had my doubts about her. I knew her through her roommate, and she had a unique vibe. At just 18, she had left her hometown to move across the country to be with a boyfriend she had never met face-to-face, despite having known him online for years. I only met him a couple of times over seven years.
Sarah was a vegan and considered herself a self-taught authority on feminism and human sexuality. Though her subtle sarcasm could be sharp, she was genuinely kind and incredibly thoughtful. We formed a close friendship. I helped her secure a job in eldercare, where she quickly became known for raising awareness about the sexual abuses faced by undocumented women within the care system. She was always advocating for others.
I treasured her friendship deeply; she was one of my closest allies. She stood by me on my wedding day, assisted me with moving furniture, and even modeled for my paintings. However, I acknowledge that I may not have been the best friend in return. During those years, I was navigating a lot of challenges and often leaned on her more than I realized she needed support too. She was such a generous person, making it easy for me to ask for her help.
Sarah was there for me when my boyfriend and I moved in together, supported me during his chemotherapy treatments, and helped me prepare for my wedding. She even assisted with my move when I was six months pregnant with twins.
Then, one day, I reached out to congratulate her upon seeing her engagement announcement on Facebook. To my surprise, she didn’t want to speak with me; she was upset and had a list of grievances. Most of these grievances were unfounded. She accused me of disparaging her fiancé and even claimed I had taken a DVD from her. I quickly bought a replacement and sent it her way. She also expressed disdain for a portrait I had painted of her.
As I listened to her enumerate my perceived flaws, I apologized, unsure of how else to respond. When I asked what I could do to mend things, she requested that I never contact her again. I conceded, and she ended the conversation with a cheerful goodbye.
It took me several months to follow through on her wishes—unfriending her on social media and removing her from my Google chat list. It was a painful process. Losing her friendship felt like a heartbreak, especially as she seemed to be thriving while I had to distance myself from her.
For the most part, I’ve honored that promise. I haven’t reached out to her, but when her new husband sent me a friend request, I accepted it. Even after four years, I find myself checking in on her from time to time.
Social media has made it remarkably easy to keep tabs on others, especially with mutual friends. A quick search can reveal a wealth of information about someone you once knew. While it’s intriguing, it can also be painful when I see her accomplishments and wish I could reach out to express my happiness for her success.
Platforms like social media allow us to stay updated on friends’ milestones—whether they are welcoming new babies, starting new jobs, or enjoying a delicious meal at a restaurant. Yet, this accessibility can also make it challenging to truly let go. I find myself missing Sarah, and seeing her name pop up in my feed only intensifies that feeling.
I hope that one day she might think of me and check in to see how I’m doing. It would mean a lot if she could acknowledge my presence in her life, even just with a simple “like” on a post. Sarah was a remarkable friend, and I miss her dearly. Four years later, the ache remains, and I wish I could tell her how happy I am for her and reassure her that I would always be there if she ever wanted me to be.
In Summary
Friendships can be complex and sometimes painful, especially when distance emerges unexpectedly. The connections we form leave lasting impressions and can continue to affect us long after they seem to be over.
Keyphrase: “navigating lost friendships”
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