Loss in Our Tides

Watching a timeless friendship unfold is like seeing an impenetrable fortress slowly weathered and softened. For nine years, we’ve lived in a beautiful kind of chaos—full of soaring highs and devastating lows. It wasn’t our demise that defined us, but the journey itself. If I’m being honest, our friendship fits every definition of “toxic”, because at times we were poison to each other’s character. And yet, somehow, we made it work. You were the Yin to my dysfunctional Yang, and vice versa.

Nature has always been the force that grounds me, but water is what truly shapes my spirit. It’s not odd that the ‘Loss of tides’ resonates on me as I’m navigating my thoughts surrounding the demise of my friendship. After all, it was our love for water and summer that drew us together.

This loss is difficult to define. There are two versions of the story, shaped not just by our own memories but by the interpretations of others. What remains undeniable is that both people are hurting—both standing firm in their own truth, both lost in the fog of grief, both too proud or too wounded to reach out to the other.

This is the version of events shaped by my own experience—my truth as I lived it. Maybe one day I will see how closely they align to what she thought happened.

My Personality Traits

As I’ve shared in past posts, I’ve dealt with mental health challenges that have sometimes made it difficult to connect with others. I've tried a couple of online therapy sessions but ultimately chose not to continue because they didn’t feel like they were the right fit for me. I also worry that medication might change how I experience myself, and I’m not ready for that step. Despite everything, I genuinely like who I am—flaws and all.

What I’ve learned about myself is that I have strong depressive tendencies, and they often transform into anxiety. It isn’t always noticeable to others because my dominant Leo personality tends to shine through. I can strike up conversations with strangers and appear outgoing, but inside I’m always a bit guarded.

Friends who know me well usually give people a heads up: “She’s quiet at first, but that’s just who she is.” Unfortunately, a lot of this comes from past trauma and the bullying I experienced in grade school. I used to be an artsy, expressive kid who loved creating plays, talking, and joking around. Over time, I learned to mask parts of myself—to quiet the parts that felt too big or too different—because I realized I wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. I’m still unlearning that habit and trying to reconnect with the version of me that I feel free to be.

As I got older, I realized I hated talking on the phone. Phone = oh hell no! Which is comical because I used to spend hours on the phone. Now, it gives me stress. People talking over each other; the other person making it seem like I was bothering them by calling. I just don’t like phone calls.

I text and send messages all the time. Despite what some people think, I will initiate a lot of those messages. I actively reach out to those I consider close. But I also don’t need to be in contact with everyone every day. It has only been recently that I stopped.

Everything became one sided, I felt as if I was constantly apologizing for something I didn’t know what I did wrong. It is unrealistic to mentally cope and understand how to react when someone is always quick to judge your words or actions. It’s hard to navigate trying to grow from grief at the loss of someone dear and being told by your closest friend constantly, “You need therapy!” It feels unjust when someone you confide in lets your quiet truths spill into the open, carried off by the storm of their temper.

In the end, after all these years, I had to create space to protect my head and my heart.

Where one road became two

In your eyes, I ghosted you.

I have abandoned you.

I’ve ignored you.

I have severed ties at your lowest and I am the one to blame.

What you don’t see are the years I spent carrying that pain—the years I played second fiddle without complaint. The nights we went out, only for you to walk away within minutes because someone else suddenly wanted your time. Do you realize what that does to a person’s mind? To try so hard to be the best for someone, to make them a priority, only to end up standing alone and crying in a bar, convinced I just wasn’t good enough. That maybe this was my own karma from past mistakes.

I took a step back to heal my own scars.

I honestly miss you. I miss us. I miss the crazy way only we seemed to understand what we were saying through hysterical laughter.

For these past four years, I stood by you—protective and committed, even when it felt like I was doing it from the shadows. Your emotional well-being was always my top priority. Every time I received, “I’m good, I’m grown.” I didn’t take it personally. Only recently did my family point out how quickly I would drop everything for you—how ready I always was to make sure you were okay. I’d cancel plans without hesitation whenever there was even a small chance for us to connect. Over time, the unbalanced nature started showing through.

When I look back on these past three years, I realize how much has happened between us. There were times when I was yelled at or dismissed, times when I felt like I was being seen as a bad friend—even though I was trying my best, because I genuinely valued our friendship. Most people seek friendship out of necessity, but I’ve always wanted it. That’s the difference for me. I wasn’t in your life to get something from you—I wanted you there because you brought a sense of calm and understanding to parts of my life that no one else ever saw.

Loss of Ourselves

This loss feels different; it has been unraveling slowly for years. I wish I hadn’t ignored the signs, and I wish I had found the courage to speak up about how those actions hurt me. Staying silent has always been my struggle. I kept my opinions to myself out of fear—fear of retaliation, fear of your words, fear of what had already been said.

That’s the thing about friendships, if you’re guarding those conversations, it’s because you don’t trust the other person to have them. And that is not healthy for either of us.

If we were truly soul sisters, why did our bond keep hurting us? I stepped back—not because I stopped loving or missing you, but because for four years I felt like an afterthought, someone you turned to only when no one else was around. You didn’t seem to need me anymore, so I stayed in the background, pretending it didn’t hurt, while quietly questioning why I wasn’t enough.

Maybe we were just two fleeting stars that aligned on the same path once. We thrived on each other’s energy and found solace in the quiet of one another’s company. But maybe that’s only a beautiful story we told ourselves—an attempt to explain how two people with so few common threads could still find joy together. In the end, our paths diverged. Not through fault, or circumstance, but simply because something shifted. We turned away from each other for reasons we may never fully know or understand. And that is something I don’t know how to fix without changing my approach to our friendship. It’s scary because I still feel the need to reach out. But I can not keep downsizing myself when there are others, better positioned, to be there for you.