It’s not that I don’t like having friends—I just choose not to make them. It’s not loneliness, not exactly, but a comfortable isolation. I genuinely enjoy being alone. I always chalked it up to my appreciation for solitude and the need to protect my peace. Yet, deep down, I know that’s not the whole truth. Beneath the years of layers, there’s a little girl who craved connection, thrived on laughter and conversation, and loved to be surrounded by friends every second of the day.
My resistance toward friendships traces back to my childhood. I have always been considered shy—a side affect of being a perfectionist I suppose. Quiet fueled by fearing that I’d mess up, that I wouldn’t measure up, that I wouldn’t be perfect. Sometimes it was just easier not to speak at all, to avoid the risk of imperfection. I still had friends though. In fact, I fit in quiet well, even bouncing between friends groups, happy to be the bridge. I always felt as though I floated on the outer edges—the valence electron of friend groups—good at including people, but otherwise floated mostly alone. I never fully understood why I felt so disconnected, but I was never really bothered by it. Honestly, I deeply valued my time alone and sometimes straight-up needed it.
So, I simply labeled myself an ambivert.
As I grew older, I built walls to protect myself from the sting of rejection and failure. These walls shielded me from the pain of disappointment but also bled into my relationships, isolating me from the warmth of genuine connection. If someone didn’t like me, that was fine—I didn’t want them around. I kept mostly everyone at an arm’s length away, letting very few past. This mentality spared me from fake friends and unnecessary drama, but it also left me with a tiny circle of friends.
This circle shrank even more as I continued to age, putting my aspirations first, placing value in myself and the steps it took to reach my goals. My last year of university was a particularly difficult year. Between all my responsibilities and the desperate effort to keep a sinking ship afloat, I didn’t have the capacity to maintain friendships. I had learned early on to present a version of myself that I thought others would find acceptable—how to smile when people expected it, how to respond in ways that fit the social norm, but none of it felt authentic. I shaped myself to fit in with those around me while burying my authentic self beneath layers of performance. This habit of masking made social interactions feel like a perpetual act and when I drowing in my own expectations, I simply could not spare the time to also fit the expectations of friends.
During that year, I valued being alone in solitude more than ever. I couldn’t bear the thought of going to the bar (and everything that would bring, which is a story in itself). I didn’t want to go to dinner or to the mall or sometimes even interact. The little time I had free, I just wanted to be alone, which doesn’t bode well for maintaining friendships.
Unfortunately, this also happened to be right before graduation, which meant everyone moving away. By then, I’d already learned to be so comfortable alone that distance felt like the final nail. Maintaining friendships is not a skill I seemed to possess, especially at a distance. When friends moved away, they seemed to disappear from my life as easily as if I’d misplaced them on a cluttered shelf—out of sight, out of mind. Days, weeks, sometimes months passed without a thought to reach out, and as a result, friendships dwindled. It wasn’t that I didn’t care; I simply forgot. When I finally did notice, the guilt was almost too much to bear. I’d feel too guilty to even reach out after months of silence thinking they probably don’t want to be friends anymore. How could I explain that it wasn’t because I didn’t care?At the same time, I questioned if the effort was even worth it—friendship isn’t a one-way street. It was easier to let go than to try to hold on, and so I did.
As a kid, friendships seemed effortless. One day you’d sit next to someone new at lunch, and by the end of recess, you were inseparable. As I’ve entered my 20s, I’ve started to recognize that making friends as an adult is difficult—it’s no longer as simple as sitting next to someone in class or playing for the same team. It requires effort and vulnerability and flexibility. At some point along the way I had decided that it was just easier to be alone. My priorities were very clear to me and often didn’t align with others around my age. And up until a few months ago, I had isolated myself so much that I had absolutely no close friends. Yes, I had friends, but none that I could be my honest self aorund, tell any story to, do things with. I didn’t mind entirely though, I had so much time to myself, and honestly, maybe I needed that time to recover from burnout.
But something shifted at the end of 2023. I was lonely, and for the first time, I truly felt it. I had my partner, but it wasn’t the same as having friends to do the girly things with. I missed the inside jokes, the shared laughter, the camaraderie of friends. I was embarassed knowing that when it came time to plan a wedding, I’d have two bridesmaids—my sister and my sister-in-law.
I craved connection, and I knew that if I wanted things to change, I had to put myself out there. So I put it on my vision board, burried between goals for my career and travel and self, that I would make friends this year. And I forced myself to reach out, to make plans, to be the one who initiates. It wasn’t easy at first. Reaching out felt like jumping off a cliff. My heart raced every time I texted someone to make plans, my thumb hovering over the send button. What if they didn’t want to hang out? What if I was forcing something that wasn’t there? I still fight the urge to retreat into my solitude, dreading plans the second after I made them. But I’ve also realized that being honest upfront about who I am and what I value has made finding true friendships so much easier. I explain that I am terrible at texting and that sometimes I just need nights alone, and more times than not, those I have become the closest with express the same feelings with a sigh of relief.
Truth is, I will never have a huge group of girlfriends, and I’m okay with that. It’s simply not maintainable for me. What I’ve found instead are relationships that are more intimate, less demanding, and deeply rewarding—connections that align with who I am, not who I thought I had to be. Friends who don’t mind a night in, who know they can cancel plans without fear of upsetting me, and vice-versa.
Now, when I think of the friends I’ve made, I feel a quiet sense of gratitude. It’s not the wild nights out or big group trips, but the small moments of connection that matter—the friend who texts just to check in, the one who understands when I need time alone. I still don’t make friends very well, but the friendships I have made have been some of the most rewarding and enjoyable connections I’ve had in their short time of being established. It make have taken over half of 2024, but it is one thing on my vision board I am the most proud of accomplishing.
I still love my solitude and books and solo travel, but now, it’s balanced with moments of laughter and shared experiences. The friendships I’ve made are different from the ones I imagined I’d have. They’re quieter, deeper, and more honest. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve found a balance that works for me.
This was very much inspired after I read Why I have never gone on a girls' holiday by Lauren Brook and free read - I'm a bad friend, I fear. by Sophie Hale, although it took me awhile to find the words to express my thoughts. And perhaps I needed the experience of making new friends to truly reflect on this wholly. The final push was finishing the book Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood and seeing my neurodivergent self in the main character. But I hope through this, if you too struggle with friendships, you feel less lonely.
I related to this so much. Growing up and having our personality or outgoingness level change is such a big adjustment. Something I still struggle with. So glad to know that I am not alone in feeling this way
Lovely read. I completely relate to the 'comfortable isolation'. I'm working on a piece of writing at the moment about doing things on your own and enjoying your own company - it's always nice to hear about others who 'get it'.