Why are we all falling out with our mates?
It’s 1pm on a Sunday, and the sticky sweetness of sambuca is still coating my mouth. I’d set an early alarm to try to secure Glastonbury tickets. I’d failed. And I am also hungover.
My best friend is sat across from me as we graze over a generously portioned roast, her cheeks glowing from weekends spent gardening and walking her two dachshunds. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this,’ Laura says, her eyes failing to meet mine. ‘But I’m pregnant.’ I stare into my plate as the news sinks in, spearing a slab of tough, gristly beef with my fork and pushing it into the small sea of glistening brown gravy. I look up and see Laura’s eyes swimming with tears.
‘I was scared to tell you, in case you wouldn’t want to be friends any more,’ she says, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. ‘We just seem to be on completely different paths.’
I drop my cutlery and walk over to her, enveloping her into a big hug. I hold her dainty frame in my arms and assure her that this would never be the case, but already, just weeks into the pregnancy, I can feel her flat stomach beginning to protrude. The bump is already between us.
Since that day, I’ve been wondering, when it comes to friendships, how can any of us guarantee that they’re going to last? After all, calling Laura my best friend does our relationship a disservice; she’s more like a sister, who’s picked me up and helped me survive when my brain was dribbling out of my ears. I will love her baby as if they were a part of my family, but, if I’m being honest, I understand why Laura was afraid her news would divide us. Already, since we met in our flat-share in Streatham six years ago, our lives have veered off in vastly different directions. Back then, we were single girls in our mid-twenties, trying to navigate London’s nightlife, fuelled by the cheapest vodka our meagre wages could afford us. Now, Laura is 32 and on a chunky salary, she owns a three-bedroom house with a partner who brings her breakfast in bed on a Saturday morning. That life seems out of reach for me. My five-year relationship had ended with a whimper last summer, and I’m still having to share a poky flat with said ex, as I’m unable to save enough for a new deposit.
Friendships, at the start, are bound by similarities. Work-mates who bond over whip-cracking bosses, school friends who share stories of first kisses and heartbreaks. But, as we get older, inevitably, we begin to make different decisions, and we reach the milestones of our lives at varying speeds. Life unfolds in complex and confusing ways, and when we can’t relate to each other, cracks begin to form. It’s unfathomable to me, a future without Laura. But for many of us, seeing your lives taking diverging paths sounds like a death knell for your friendship.
Research conducted in 2023 shows friendship groups are getting smaller; the average Brit has 3.7 close friends, a 27% fall compared with a decade ago’s average of 5.1. Whether it’s the political climate, cost- of-living crisis or rise of dating-app culture – there’s a long list of pressures being put on even the strongest of friendships. A survey by LifeSearch found that in the past two years, we’ve each lost, on average, around four friends. With our besties disappearing before our eyes, it’s little wonder we’re feeling lonely; just last year, a huge 96% of you told us you’d struggled with feelings of loneliness at some point*.
But what happens when friendships hit a rocky patch? Whether it’s leaning on a couples’ counsellor or self-help social media feeds, somehow we’ve become better equipped at dealing with romantic relationship challenges than we have platonic ones. And while the friendship ‘slow fade’ is real, is there a better way? I spoke to five women facing their own great friendship divides, as well as Self Space founder and therapist Jodie Cariss, to find out...
When you’re a new mum
Priya, 35, was overjoyed when she realised she was pregnant. But, as the first woman in her friendship group to be having a child, she was left stunned when she saw some of her circle slowly phase her out of their lives.
‘You’re not going to be one of those mums who bangs on about your kid all of the time, are you?’ I’d just announced my pregnancy to my closest friends over a celebration dinner, and, after the squealing and hugs had died down, some of their comments left me wondering how supportive they’d actually be. My group of friends have all been in my life for around two decades. While some of them want children in the future, I’m the first to have a baby.
My son is now four months old, and while it’s not been nasty, my initial fears have been confirmed, a distance has formed. I’ve not seen some of the girls since that dinner. It’s hard when having a baby is already so overwhelming – seeing your body change, the hormones and when you’re panicking about what the future looks like – you feel isolated. It felt even lonelier that my husband is still close to his friends.
The birth of my son was traumatic – it didn’t quite go the way we hoped. But because none of my group had been through labour, I had no one to talk to about it. Things felt flat when some of my friends did come and visit – to me, it felt almost like a tick-box exercise; they’d shown their faces, they’d seen my baby, but they didn’t seem genuinely interested in how I was.
It’s been even more difficult when they pop up on Instagram. Sometimes, I scroll through and see the dinners they’re having, the nights out they’re on. It’s almost like I’m going through a mourning period for the life I used to have – a life that’s totally different now. I’ve nurtured new relationships with other women through apps for new mums such as Peanut, and women I met in my antenatal classes. It has helped, just having people with the common bond of motherhood. But I still miss my old friends, and what we had.
Going through something similar?
Therapist Jodie Cariss says: ‘If parenthood is dominating your life right now, there’s no point pretending it isn’t and trying to be how you were before kids. Are you being distanced or are you feeling distanced because of the growing difference in life choices? If you can deduce what it is you’re contributing to the experience, you’ll have more power over how to change or shift that.
‘Sit down with your friends. Try to be curious about how they’re feeling and what might be happening between you. Have a resolution focus – maybe you set two or three objectives, such as meeting once every few weeks with no children, then doing something with children, or maybe learning something new together. This commitment to the friendship solidifies that you both care.’
When you’ve decided you don’t want kids
After being diagnosed with an autoimmune condition in her mid-twenties, Shayna decided that she didn’t want to pursue the path of motherhood. Now 31, she feels she’s been pushed out of her university friendship group.
The funny thing is, I love kids: I have all the ingredients to make the best aunt. But when the doctors told me it would be more difficult to have children because of my diagnosis, I had this reckoning of, ‘Do I want to have kids? Would I want to do this to my body?’ And deep down, the answer was no.
It’s my university friends I’ve drifted from the most. We were best friends, but the physical distance – and the life choices – are what have separated us.
A lot of my university friends are now parents. Before, we had things in common, but many are now solely interested in their children. And I love their kids, but there’s only so much I can say about daycare and nappy
changes. I just feel we don’t have a relationship I can have much input into any more. I’m still cordial with them, I’m just not part of that core group. I can see in our group chat that they’re planning playdates and sharing pictures of their children. I could imagine myself being squeezed out, and I felt that I just didn’t fit in any longer.
My mum taught me an important lesson as a child, that there are three types of relationships: reason, season and lifetime. I now realise my university friendship group was only seasonal. It’s sad, and if I wasn’t so strongly minded, I would feel upset at being frozen out. But as we’re on very different paths, I’m happy to step back for now.
When I meet new people, hearing that they don’t want kids is a massive green flag. However, that doesn’t mean I won’t get on with people who do have children. My best friend is expecting a baby and I want to be deeply involved in that child’s life. I know we will be spending a lot of time together – but I’ve made it clear to my friend that while I’m happy for her, we still have to make time for each other, too. We have to be able to function as a unit away from her child. I’m lucky that she understands that I’m child-free and I want to remain that way. I’m sad that I’ve lost friends, but I just try to see it as growth. I’m going to whole new places – but I just can’t take everyone with me.
Going through something similar? Cariss says: ‘Helpful questions to ask yourself are, “Do I like or gain from being with their children?” And, “Is that something I want, or do I want alone time with my friend, or a bit of both?”
‘First, decide what it is you need from this friendship now, and then ask what it is they need from you. And how can you meet each other in the middle? If you have agreed to once-a-month days out with your friend and the kids, then really arrive for that without resentment and be present, otherwise it’ll feel draining and unfulfilling. Decide what a real yes and no is for you both and decide together: “Can we make this work?” You can then hope they will arrive with the same commitment.’
When the salary gap is huge
Issie’s large secondary school friendship group was forged through sleepovers, house parties and summer holidays spent together. Now she’s 24, both her and her friends have gone on to build their own careers, and the salary differences have resulted in some difficult new challenges.
I grew up in Brighton and was part of a big friendship group in secondary school – plus a few others who I met in primary school, so we’re very much childhood friends. From the ages of 14 to 19, we were inseparable: we had parties, sleepovers and we were out together every weekend. We were a mixed group, academically speaking – some of us were highfliers and went to top unis, and some of us chose not to take that path. It was when we all moved to London that I really started to notice the fragmentation in our friendships. We all have very different careers; I work for a youth charity called The Mix, and two of the group are teachers. But then we have a few in the group who are civil servants and another works as a scientist; they all earn a lot but also have intense hours. It means if we’re heading to the pub after work, they’re very rarely there; a once very close physical friendship is now almost entirely digital.
There was a tension last year when we set about booking our annual group holiday away. We wanted to rent a villa for 16 of us somewhere for a week, but our budgets were all vastly different.
Some of us had scrimped and saved for months and only had around £300, and others had three times the amount. It underlined how many of us were living wildly different lives. With my childhood friends, we’re rooted together through our memories and all those shared experiences, which I hope will keep us close as we get older, despite the financial gulf between us. Every summer, we head back to Brighton for one of my friend’s events – an annual party in the woods near our childhood homes. But if we didn’t all pull our weight, our friendship would have fizzled by now. It’s sad that what I thought was a once unbreakable childhood friendship could just melt away.
Going through something similar? Cariss says: ‘Letting people into what is and isn’t possible for you and finding a way to agree that being together and not how much you spend when you are together is the important part. The worst thing you can do is pretend you can afford something when you can’t. This tends to build fear, anxiety and resentment in relationships. It also serves to keep you isolated and not drive towards the thing you probably need most, which is closeness.’
When you’re newly single
After turning 32, Zoe is seeing her best friends settle down, get married and have children – and she’s starting to feel left behind.
I’m a serial monogamist; I got my first boyfriend at 14, and that relationship lasted seven years. I had a few other long-term relationships in my twenties, but for the past eight months, I’ve been single. It’s a stark contrast to my university friends; my best friend is three months’ pregnant and has been with her partner for five years and another university friend is trying for a baby, after getting married last year. A third friend is getting married. And then there’s me, starting again from scratch.
It’s a strange situation – since I hit my thirties, I don’t want to be partying so much. But when I’m with my coupled-up friends, they talk about flower arrangements, baby plans or honeymoon suggestions, and I feel excluded from that sort of lifestyle. I feel like we’ve left the arena of clubbing and big nights out, and I was the last to leave it. But now there’s this new arena made up of babies and families and buying houses – and I don’t have a ticket for that either. I’m seeing all my friends barge past me in the queue; I can hear them go in and do their thing, and I can’t get access to it. I feel like I’m in no-man’s land.
Seeing all my group settle down and spend every weekend with their partners has led to further pressures. I’m seeing my mum and dad getting older – approaching their seventies – and it worries me that they won’t have the energy to run around after my children when I do have them. As happy as I am for all my friends settling down, it feels like a hit to my gut when yet another girlfriend announces they’re pregnant or engaged. I just feel so far removed from it. I’m hoping when I’m older, I’ll look back and wonder what I was so worried about.
For now, I’m trying to see my thirties as a different adventure. I’ve joined different gym classes and groups to branch out. I also spend more time with
single friends who are always out doing interesting and exciting things; one of my friends is a DJ and I spend more time with her, as she’s still up for going out or attending festivals. If I hadn’t made the time to meet more single friends, I’d have felt so lonely. I think I have to accept the door is closing on the sorts of friendships I had in my twenties. I’ve been honest with my friends that I want to join them on their journeys to marriage and motherhood; I still want to be involved in their lives. But my own journey to this new, grown-up life seems a long way off.
Going through something similar? Cariss says: ‘Does your circle make you feel included, seen and valid, regardless of your relationship status? If not, why not? Creating an opportunity for what you need and want with your friends may be viable, either more one-to-one time or more group hangouts outside of couples. If you come from a place of truth with what you need, your friends will be more likely to swoop in to support and understand you.’
When you’re grieving
Angharad was 14 when her father passed away suddenly, with the sudden shock of his loss seeing her secondary school friendship group split in two. Now 20, she feels the experience of her grief still colours her friendships.
I knew something was wrong the moment my phone screen lit up. My mum and I were going on holiday to France and we’d woken up early to head to the airport. I could see my dad had sent a number of texts in the middle of the night. The last one read, ‘I love you 110% and just for ever.’ I had a gut feeling that something was off. Shortly after sending those messages, my dad had died from a heart attack.
Up until that point, I had a typical group of friends at school. We’d all met on the first day of year seven and bonded through shared classes and homework. The friendship group fell apart when I came back to school the week after my dad’s death.
The group had already started to get bitchier – there would be stupid arguments about little things. But when I came back to school, some of those girls suddenly became really nice. They said all the things you expect to hear: ‘Sorry for your loss,’ and ‘Your dad’s an angel looking down on you now.’ But it felt fake. I felt like I wasn’t Angharad any more – I was the girl whose dad had died.
As I grew older, I got involved with grieving charities such as Winston’s Wish, but I still struggle with my dad’s loss now, and it had a huge impact on my time at university, where I found it difficult to make friends. At first, it was great – I was part of a large group and I was really up for having fun. But then my mood would slump due to a difficult grief day and I wouldn’t want to go out. Once you say no a couple of times, you stop being asked. It was like being back in year seven again with all this cliquey drama. I’ve learned that life is too short to put up with these situations. And I know that if my dad could talk to me, he would probably say it’s not worth it. It’s not worth putting yourself into those situations with friends, acquaintances, anyone that doesn’t make you feel good.
The loss of my dad did, however, reinforce two of my strongest friendships, with girls who have become my best friends. In the wake of my dad dying, one of them came to visit me while I was grieving and gave me a Jellycat elephant, which I spray with my dad’s aftershave. Even today, my two best friends know when I’m struggling with grief; they can read me without me having to say a word, and then they’re straight on FaceTime. Even though we’ve gone to different universities, we’ve remained tight – we spend all summer in my garden just catching up.
Losing my dad has been the hardest thing I’ve ever dealt with, but it has shown me that there are good people out there. It’s important you find them – and hold on to them.
Going through something similar? Cariss says: ‘Grieving a loved one pulls us into a bit of a silent, isolating world. Everything we usually hold as important, such as friendship, can become momentarily numb and hard to appreciate. The loss can sit between us and our friends. And depending on how comfortable they are with death (or not), it can become an unspeakable presence. We also find ourselves struggling to communicate. It’s important, in these moments, to articulate our pain, however clumsily. Let our friends know what we need – solitude, a listening ear, a bag of shopping, dishes, or simply their hand in ours. Establish boundaries without guilt; grief demands it.’
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