Dear reader,
I am finally ready to talk about this; I hope it isn't too late.
I have fewer friends now than I've ever had in my life. Over the years, I've lost most of my friends. The sad part is that there was no argument, no fight, no issues, no reason.
Recently, an article went viral; it was about the grief of adult friendships. It put into words exactly what I had been feeling.
An Indian columnist called Pranav Jain wrote it. It opens with a friend calling him at 1:40 in the morning. His body braces for catastrophe - that's what late-night calls mean in adulthood - and then he realises she just heard a song they used to love and rang to say she missed him. They spend thirty minutes talking about nothing. Work. Gossip. Back pain at 30. And after the call ends, he sits awake with what he describes as the strange ache of having briefly encountered an earlier version of himself. Just…more reachable.
The article names the thing I bet all of us are living through. The slow, invisible grief of losing your adult friendships because life happens. And I think the reason it went so viral is because he pointed out something that is obvious once someone says it, but that almost nobody ever says:
We have built an entire cultural infrastructure for romantic heartbreak. There are songs for it, films for it, poetry, rituals, sympathy, and advice columns. Entire industries exist to help you process a breakup.
There is almost nothing for the loss of a friendship.
There is no language. No ritual. No permission to grieve. Your best friend from 10 years ago slowly becomes someone whose Instagram stories you occasionally watch at 11 pm, and because there was no fight, no betrayal, no dramatic ending, you don't let yourself feel a loss.
And as the article says,
The tragedy is that this loneliness often coexists with constant digital interaction. We are perhaps the first generation to possess uninterrupted access to each other while simultaneously becoming emotionally inaccessible. We maintain ambient awareness of one another's existence without participating meaningfully in each other's lives. I know what my old friends eat. Which cafés they visit. Which things they complain about. I know when they get promoted because LinkedIn informs me. And yet sometimes I hesitate before calling because I no longer know the emotional weather of their lives.
When I was in school, it was much easier to maintain friendships. I'd see them pretty much every day, and it didn't take much work; proximity and regularity did the maintenance.
But after school ended, there was no class for us to attend together.
We all moved to different universities, different cities, and, in some cases, different countries. It now required active effort on our sides to call and talk about things. Not too long after, the time between those calls gets longer. To share anything meaningful, it takes a lot of time to share with them the context. So we don't share anything except the highlights. Over time, we rarely call each other, if ever.
Adulthood is demanding enough, but when you take a pause, you feel heavy: the weight of those lost friendships.
That's the heaviness I've been feeling.
All the friends I haven't talked to in months, and years: How do I even call them? What do I even tell them for why I didn't call sooner? That life happened? What if there is no friendship left to pick up?
What I fear more, however, is that if I don't, I'll lose whatever friendships there still might be. Perhaps this is my chance to save what is left.
Perhaps this is the time I go first.
There's a good chance that you have someone in mind right now. Perhaps an old friend with whom you felt unbreakable, but haven't talked to for ages. I urge you to send that message, to reach out to them, talk to them.
I'd love to hear your thoughts and experiences on this.
I'll see you next week.
Warmly,
Suraj