On a warm July evening, I dove into bed and grabbed my phone, giddy and anxious. As I scrolled through TikTok, attempting to calm my nerves, a Google Calendar notification flashed on the screen: “VIDEO CALL WITH SIMONE.”
Before I could swipe the reminder away, Simone FaceTimed me. I attempted to rehearse my greeting as the call buffered: Should I keep it cool with a, “Hey, what’s good?” No, that sounds cold. What about a Keke Palmer-esque, “Girl!” No, that’s doing too much. “Good evening?” No, it’s not evening her time, that doesn’t even make sen—
“Girl!” Simone said with a chuckle.
I couldn’t help but crack a smile. As I’d learned over the course of our six-year friendship, her warmth never failed to replace my anxiety with joy.
“Damn, it’s been a minute.” she added.
She was right. Though Simone is my closest friend, we don’t see or talk to each other often. Both are my fault. In 2020, after months holed up in my tiny Washington, D.C. apartment, I decided to wait out the winter at my mother’s cottage in Kenya. It was just what the doctor ordered, and a few months later, I decided to move to Nairobi permanently.
My move changed our friendship—it changed all of my friendships, actually. I tried to stay in touch with my friends stateside for a while, but as time went on, FaceTime dates became harder to plan, and fewer voice notes were exchanged via WhatsApp. Now, I don’t know if I can call any of them friends anymore—and my relationship with Simone felt like it was hanging by a thread.
Things in Kenya aren’t much better. Though I’m Kenyan by ethnicity, I grew up abroad, in the US and UK, and I’ve found that my foreign accent and perspective other me, even within my family. These days, my social life tends to begin and end with nights on the couch, re-watching Shameless with my boyfriend. I’m ashamed and terrified about that reality; it feels dangerous to rely on only him for human connection.
After all, friends are witnesses to your life. They enrich the living experience. Not having that makes me feel like that tree that falls in the forest alone: Can anybody hear me? Do I matter?
Marriage and family therapist Shontel Cargill promises me that these feelings are normal. She says that friendship loss in one’s mid-to-late 20s is common for several reasons: life transitions, romantic relationships, evolution of priorities, and more. And while it doesn’t happen to everyone, for some, friendship loss “can lead to psychological distress,” sparking issues with anxiety, depression, trust, and self-esteem. Check, check, check, and check.
Cargill says that talking about your struggles with others can help the healing process, but I’ll be honest—that hasn’t worked for me. Most people I’ve spoken to about my predicament don’t get it, which only makes me feel worse. I tried to bring it up on my aforementioned call with Simone, but her empathetic smile and pitying eyes said it all: She couldn’t relate. Lucky her.
I needed answers. Concrete ones—not those generic suggestions that I “put myself out there” or “just give it time.” Everyone around me had managed to hold on to friends throughout their lives; everyone seemed to be on girls’ trips and boozy brunches; seemed to have a tribe of confidants ready to drop everything for them. And here I was, a lonely, overworked 28-year-old who spent way too much time in her apartment, wondering why she didn’t have any of that.
So, like a good journalist, I decided to investigate. After speaking to Simone, I determined that I’d reach out to some of my former friends directly, and see if we could have a conversation about why we “broke up.” Many declined, and understandably so. But to my surprise, a few agreed to participate in my crazy scheme.
