08 MIN READ · VOL. 01 · ISSUE 06
I don’t take the term “friendship” lightly. I have a high bar and a long lead time before I call someone a friend. And it’s not because I’m difficult. It’s because I know what I need from a friendship and what I’m willing to give. I’ll tell you all about my standards in a bit, but first, I want to start with the kind of friend I don’t want to be (at least not anymore).
I’ve known some of my closest friends almost my entire life. I’m talking about meeting in elementary school and at birthday parties where five of us could jump on the bed without risking a concussion.
And when one of my close friends was in what I considered a shitty relationship, I was perhaps a bit too vocal about my disdain for her boyfriend. I would tell her she could do better, remind her of everything he wasn’t giving her, and encourage her to break up with him anytime they were in a rough spot. I took it so far that when I found what I knew would be her perfect breakup card (it had a little jewel of a cactus with a note that said, “He was a prick. I never liked him anyways.”), I bought it for her. FIVE YEARS before they actually broke up.
In the end, I wasn’t wrong about her boyfriend. But I was wrong for being such a bitch about it. The good news is that our friendship outlasted their relationship, but that wasn’t by chance. I knew I needed to change.
We used to talk all the time. And by that I mean we’d have three-hour phone calls where you don’t even bother to put the person on mute when you have to pee. But all of a sudden, we started drifting apart. We talked less and less, and I had no idea what was going on in her life, much less her relationship. I don’t recall the exact sequence of events, but at some point, we had a hard talk about how I was being too judgmental and she didn’t feel like she could open up to me without being criticized or told what to do.
That hurt. And she was absolutely right. I was doing and saying what I thought was best for her, but I never actually stopped to ask her what she needed.
So I changed. And our relationship changed. I told her I’d support her however she needed and stop offering my opinions on her boyfriend unless she asked. That didn’t mean I was completely silent. I was still vocal when I was genuinely concerned for her, but I stopped criticizing her choices, which meant that I stopped criticizing her. I was loving her in the way she needed to be loved.
And truthfully, it was uncomfortable at first. I had to consciously edit my reactions, which took practice and effort. But it became clear that my shift toward being less judgmental and more supportive was changing all of my relationships for the better, not just our friendship.
I honestly don’t think she ever asked for my opinion on her boyfriend after that. But she did open back up to me, and we’re still close friends today.
Alright, so what do I mean when I call you my friend?
I mean that I’m willing to give you everything that I need in my friendships: time, energy, attention, (very) deep conversations, compassion, understanding, and room for change.
Now, I’m willing to give much more than I get. And sometimes I’ll need more than I’m able to give. It’s not about things being 50/50. It’s about cultivating reciprocal relationships that give me what I consider the bare minimum. And of course, this is completely subjective. Your list may look different than mine.
What’s odd is that I’m not sure I’ve ever explicitly told my friends what I need from them. I’ve kinda just expected them to know. And while I’ve asked a couple of friends what friendship means to them and what they need from me, I’m not going to pretend that’s a normal part of our conversations.
Once upon a time, in February, I was getting out of what was an incredibly tumultuous relationship.
We’d been on and off for almost three years, and although our breakups weren’t always public, they were chaotic for the people around us. At the end of the relationship, I was convinced that everything was my fault: what wasn’t working, why it ended, how it ended. It was all my fault. And that’s the story I told to my friends.
Without getting into all of the details, I’ll just tell you that I couldn’t convince most of my friends that everything was my fault. I tried, multiple times. And I’m not saying that to absolve myself of responsibility. It takes two to tango, and it took both of us to break our relationship. I’m making the point that my close friends saw things I couldn’t see at the time. They weren’t in the mess, even if they’d had a front-row seat.
My best friends listened. They let me cry, process, and rehash the same story until I could hear it differently. They told me hard truths when I needed them, but never rushed me to “get over it.” They gave me everything I needed without me ever having to ask.
I’m not sure if that was a complete fluke or if it’s the exact reason why we’re friends. I’m also not sure how normal it is to communicate our needs overtly, or whether our relationships naturally form or fall apart based on whether those needs are being met.
That said, I’ll admit that I’m a bit of a high-maintenance lady. So if I’m not getting what I need, I tend to be pretty vocal about it.
For whatever reason, other friends weren’t able to meet my needs. And I don’t hold it against them. It was messy. Everyone cared, but to what degree and with what reservations, I’ll probably never know. I’m not sure I really want to know.
I genuinely believe they thought they were being good friends. But what got in the way was everything we left unsaid. They offered what they thought I needed, but never actually asked me what I needed.
To be clear, nobody is obliged to give me what I need in a friendship, especially if meeting my needs would conflict with theirs or cross their boundaries in any way.
The friends who held me up still had boundaries. I could cry, but I couldn’t ask them to watch me drown in my sorrow, much less to drown with me. I could tell them my opinion, but I couldn’t insist that they had to agree with how I saw things. I think a big part of what held us together was their honesty about what they could give and what they needed from me. They didn’t dismiss their feelings or needs just because mine were louder.
I don’t think it’s anybody’s fault that some friendships felt strained. That’s a very natural part of a breakup. But the friendships that held steady got a hell of a lot stronger. Hell, I got stronger! And the blunt truth is that the other friendships weren’t giving me what I needed to begin with. Maybe they weren’t getting what they needed from me either. The breakup didn’t end them. But it did change them.
I used to think there was only one type of friendship…
Hence my high bar and long initiation process before I call someone a friend. But the past few years have taught me that just because some friendships are more casual than others doesn’t mean they’re any less valuable.
Some friendships have the depth and emotional intimacy to carry us through our toughest breakups times. Others are built around shared interests, convenience, work relationships, mutual friends, or simply being in the same season of life.
Different friendships can open different parts of you. And if we’re being truthful, sometimes not all of you is welcome in every friendship. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing!
I’m the friend who thinks everyone looks more kissable after a cocktail or two. And those can be virgin cocktails. But I know which of my friends welcome that energy and which would prefer I never mention that again. Keeping myself in line isn’t being any less honest about who I am. It’s being more respectful of who they are. They’re my friends, and because I love them, I have absolutely no problem adjusting to their needs.
This brings me back to the question of how overtly we need to state our needs in friendships. I don’t tally how each friend’s needs overlap with mine or where I need to adjust. But I think, I hope, that I’m walking a respectful line of being authentic about who I am while giving them the space to be who they are.
Just because a friendship isn’t everything you want it to be doesn’t mean you have to choose between rushing to repair it or lighting the entire thing on fire. Sometimes friendships don’t need to be fixed. They just need to be accepted for what they are. That may mean adjusting your expectations for a period or deciding that, for your own sake, it’s best to pull away.
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do for a friendship is to stop asking it for things it’s already shown you it can’t give.
Let’s overthink this together:
What do you mean when you call someone a friend?
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