
There’s a wall racing toward you—fast, silent, and invisible. No one warns you about it, and few even acknowledge its existence. I call it the “Great Friendship Filter.” This filter typically hits in your twenties, often just as you’re graduating college. You and your friends scatter—some to grad school, others chasing dreams in New York City, and a few who simply vanish, dropping off the face of the earth.
You know people drift apart; it’s inevitable. You even think you can predict who those people will be—the casual acquaintance from your sorority or the flaky one who never followed through on lunch plans. But here’s the truth: The Great Friendship Filter doesn’t care who you think your “real” friends are. It filters based on who they actually are, and sometimes the results will devastate you.
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I transferred this year from Union College, leaving behind an incredible group of friends—funny, caring people who felt like family. Among them were two friends I was inseparable from, the kind of people with whom you spend almost every day and night. I knew some friendships might fade with distance, but those two? I couldn’t imagine it.
We shared everything. There wasn’t a week when we didn’t grab at least five meals together, no problem too big or small to talk through. We always believed our bond was unshakable, the kind of friendship that lasts a lifetime.
But it was these two—the ones I couldn’t imagine losing—that slipped away. They were the ones filtered out of my life.
…
If you’re a people pleaser, be warned—you’re especially vulnerable. Even I, someone who prides myself on not being a people pleaser, wasn’t spared. I used to say I didn’t see the good in people; I saw the ugly and chose to love them anyway. I thought that made me superior, like my capacity for love was greater. But in reality, it just meant I was loving people who weren’t good for me, people who couldn’t or wouldn’t meet my needs.
One of the most harmful beliefs we hold is that relationships are reciprocal, that you get back what you put in. They’re not. The biggest mistake I ever made was giving to someone who would never, not even in the smallest way, give back. I thought I could sustain friendships through sheer willpower, carrying the relationship entirely on my shoulders. But the Great Friendship Filter waits for moments like this—moments when you let go, even just a little. When you do, it swoops in.
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I had done everything I could to keep those friendships alive. I called at least once every two weeks, visited for one of their birthdays, and texted regularly. But when life threw me a curveball—a bout of strep, a six-week-long sinus infection, and mono during a brutal finals season—I couldn’t keep up. My effort faltered for just three weeks. Aside from the occasional TikTok exchange, I barely had the energy to reach out. That’s all it took—three weeks of little contact—for those friendships to fall silent.
Between the two of them, I had spent Thanksgiving with one, planned a surprise birthday party complete with a handwritten card for the other, and shelled out over $1,000 to visit one of them on their birthday, covering travel and more. We’d been best friends for a year and a half. During that visit, I remember thinking, “Oh gosh, she’d never do all this for me.” But somehow, I didn’t mind. Why didn’t I? Because I loved them? Because the fact I loved them mattered more than the fact that they weren’t willing to show they felt the same?
After two weeks of ignored calls and unanswered texts, I finally caved and sent one of them a heartfelt message asking if we were still friends. The response I got was dry, almost detached: “It’s just the distance, plus the whole friend group dynamic has changed, and I’ve just been super busy.”
He had managed to answer my question, albeit with a lack of interest that stung more than I expected. I wanted to tell him I’d always miss him, to let him know how much I valued the friendship. But instead, I asked what he’d been up to.
He never responded.
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When it happens, it’s disorienting. At first, you’ll try to brush it off, but it lingers. Losing people you once believed would be there forever is one of the hardest things you’ll experience. You can’t blame them, you can’t hate them, and you can’t do anything but love them from afar. You knew who they were when you chose them. You were brave to love them despite it, but bravery doesn’t make the grieving process any easier.
You’ll go through denial, bargaining, and depression. The hardest part is finding your way to acceptance, a path that often feels hidden. Depression whispers harsh, unrelenting truths you’ve convinced yourself are undeniable, and fighting back against those thoughts takes immense strength. But it’s necessary.
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It was Christmas when I finally accepted it was over. I had made a heartfelt post, thanking all the people who had been my friends that year—friends who had meant the world to me, including the two who, just three months earlier, had been my best friends. Surely, distance didn’t mean ignoring me entirely, right?
But later that day, I saw them clearly active on Instagram, liking and commenting on other posts, while mine went ignored—just as I had been ignored. That’s when it hit me: it was two weeks until my birthday, and the friends I had given everything for wouldn’t even send a simple birthday text.
I couldn’t stop wondering: If I hadn’t transferred, would I have spent the rest of my life breaking my back for a friendship that was only special because I made it so? That realization brought a newfound sense of self-respect.
But self-respect didn’t stop the heartbreak. I still spent the afternoon crying.
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The Great Friendship Filter isn’t all bad. It hurts, but it reveals what matters most to you. For me, that’s someone willing to put in the work to stay. I’ve learned that I deserve friends who don’t treat reconnecting with me as a burden, who won’t let me drift away without a fight. When I understood that, I realized which friendships deserved my effort and which ones I had neglected but shouldn’t have.
The filter will come for you again and again. It’s cyclical. It’s scary to think about, but it’s also comforting. It reminds me of the people who chose me even when it wasn’t convenient, the ones who make life easier, lighter. I’ve lost friends I thought were forever, but I’ve gained others who make me feel safe and loved. These friends remind me that I’m worth the effort, and their love gives me courage.
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“Well, I just want you to know that I’m grateful you still put in the effort to be my friend,” I said, my voice trembling through sniffles as I spoke with my friend Michael.
“You shouldn’t be,” he replied firmly. “You are Kyra goddamn Graham. Don’t forget that.”
It hadn’t been easy for me to open up about what I was feeling, but that’s the secret. When that quiet, insidious voice whispers that you don’t have real friends, you have to silence it by reaching out to the people who have always made you feel valued.
“I’m just glad this happened to you now instead of one or two years from now,” my friend Liam told me. “Finding lifelong friends isn’t about how long you’ve known them—it’s about who they really are.”
…
Friendship with them is easy because I know it won’t fade simply because I get sick or busy. They make me brave, and I know that even if they were to leave one day, there will always be others who will love me just as fiercely. Life will keep filtering, but there’s beauty in the process.
So don’t fight it. Don’t rush it. Accept it for what it is: a way to grieve, grow, and discover who’s truly meant to stay.
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