Unfriended in Real Life: The Emotional Toll of Losing a Long-Term Friendship
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
I, your adorable and sometimes cool, grown ass friend Cyndie❤️, was unceremoniously unfriended. As an adult. And it sucked. There—I’ve said it.
Losing a lifelong friend as an adult feels like an earthquake beneath our foundation. There’s a deep-seated comfort that comes with someone knowing our history—the good, the bad, the awkward, the inside jokes—and when that bond is suddenly severed, especially without warning or explanation, it leaves us grappling with a strange sense of loss and betrayal. A friendship that has endured for decades feels like it should be immune to life’s fluctuations. And when that bond breaks without conversation or closure, it feels like such a profound breach of trust, one that leaves us not only grieving the relationship but questioning our own worth.
This post is deeply personal because a few years ago, this is exactly what I experienced. In the middle of every other loss in 2020, a friend who I’d known for 16 years + ( a college friend) simply walked away. No conversation, no explanation. They simply stopped taking my calls and blocked me on social media. We are a part of the same yoga community and in fact, her influence was at least partially why I became a yoga teacher in earlier days. Along with her sister, I was the godmother of her child, listed in her will, and literally—the only person in her wedding party. Four years later, and I am still stunned by how this could actually happen.
What makes this loss so difficult is the absence of answers. When someone we trusted for years simply shuts us out, it forces us into an endless loop of "what did I do wrong?" without any real way of finding resolution. I’ve replayed moments, analyzed my own behavior, and scrutinized conversations, trying to decode exactly where things fell apart. It was exhausting, and felt deeply personal because the lack of explanation left me to fill in the blanks with my own insecurities and self-doubt. The emotional toll of that is hard to put into words, and it feels isolating because so few people truly understand the depth of that connection—and the profound hurt—that came with it.
There’s a part of us that wants to find a way to forgive this person who left without a word, to “rise above” and move on gracefully. But we don’t have to make excuses for them or rationalize their actions.
I am a firm believer in the power of forgiveness as an act of grace for the forgiver—meaning we forgive to move forward within ourselves and not necessarily as a “gift” bestowed on others. (Does that make sense?) There’s a part of me that wants to find a way to forgive this person who left without a word, to “rise above” and move on gracefully. But here’s what I know—I can move forward without making excuses for them, accepting or rationalizing their actions. In the four years since this happened, I’ve come to realize that I often make excuses for other people’s behavior and I’m no longer willing or able to do that. (In my case, losing a mama++ left me with a lot less fucks to give over things that I can’t impact.)
I don’t mince words so I won’t start now: what they did was shitty and selfish. Walking away from a long-term friendship without a single conversation or explanation feels cowardly, a way to sidestep any shared accountability or the discomfort of honesty. Acknowledging this isn’t about holding onto bitterness but about giving ourselves permission not to accept shitty treatment. I can decide that while I’ll find my own closure, I don’t have to forgive someone who chose silence over respect.
Unlike the fluid friendships of our younger years, adult friendships take real effort and intention. Losing a long-term friend feels like losing a piece of our own identity; we’re left questioning where we fit, who we can trust, and how we belong. This loss can cast a shadow over new relationships, making us wary of fully opening up. If someone who knew us so well could cut ties without explanation, it’s natural to wonder if others might do the same. I’ve noticed a subtle but significant change in how I interact with the world—there’s a hesitancy, a need to protect myself from feeling that exposed again.
And then there’s the guilt. Because we don’t have any clear answers, we often turn the blame inward, as though we must have done something unforgivable without even realizing it. Carrying around the belief that we were somehow the cause can erode our sense of self-worth and leave us anxious in future friendships. What a mindfuck. Each new connection can start to feel like a potential landmine, one where we’re hyper-aware of every word, every interaction, every chance of overstepping. And I know that this is absolutely true for me. We might not recognize it at first, but this self-blame can create invisible walls, making it harder to be our true selves and to trust freely.
One of the hardest parts about this kind of friendship loss is finding closure, without answers or apologies. (Ambiguous grief is what many of my therapist and psychologist friends call this, btw.) Closure, in this case, becomes a personal choice—a quiet acceptance that I may never understand what happened or why. It requires us to come to terms with the idea that some friendships, no matter how meaningful, simply reach an end. Finding that peace is neither quick or easy, but with time, I find myself attempting to see that relationship for what it brought into my life, rather than what it took away. Even without answers, we can hold on to the good parts and lessons learned.
Relearning trust is a delicate process, one that starts with recognizing our own worth and our right to be treated with kindness and integrity. It’s about letting go of the guilt that often clings to these experiences and realizing that friendships, like all relationships, require mutual effort and honesty. Moving forward, we can choose to engage with people who show us care, who communicate openly, and who love us enough to be honest. With intention, I’m learning to build new friendships on the foundation of what I now know to value most in others—and in myself—integrity and unyielding honesty.
If you’re navigating the loss of a friend, know that healing is possible. It may take time, and it may ask you to trust again in ways that feel uncertain, but there’s such resilience in allowing yourself to stay open. Friendships may come and go, but each one shapes us, makes us stronger, and brings us closer to the most important relationship we’ll ever have—the one with ourselves. And we can allow ourselves to move forward without needing to understand the details of why things ended. Sometimes, our deepest strength is in simply —letting go.
Every essay will feature a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
I love children’s books; the simple but sophisticated artwork and bright colors make my day. And the topics that touch us at our core with so few words —well, it feels like some kind of sorcery to me.
I recently picked up this book at one of my fave local bookstores and I’m pretty sure I skipped out of the shop with my new book in tow.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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