Confessions of a Formerly Excellent Friend

Rebuilding your community when it feels like you have little to give

Last night I sat at my desk working up the energy to write a thoughtful note to send to my friend for her 40th birthday.

I didn’t want to slip a generic card in the mail for this woman I’ve known since I was 14. I wanted to do something meaningful.

Except my friend’s birthday was 8 days ago, and I still hadn’t sent a card.

Sitting at my desk in the dark, my household quiet with sleep, I couldn’t help but think back to the excellent friend I used to be.

Seven years ago, I flew out to visit this same friend in the hospital after she experienced a brutal early pregnancy complication and her daughter had a long NICU stay ahead of her.

I sat with her while she attached herself to a hospital-grade pump and fed her breastmilk to her tiny daughter through a tube.

When this friend was undergoing a painful back surgery over a decade ago, I sent her a massive care package. I carefully selected gossip magazines, sweets, silly t-shirts, and a skeleton’s spine key chain to send to her in Chicago.

I carried that giant box several blocks down to my graduate school post office to mail it to her myself.

I spent her 25th birthday with her in New York City at a flashy Indian restaurant — the one in the Lower East Side with 5,000 string lights on the ceilings. It was a rare year when we were both in the same city, and I felt so in love with our city and so in love with my friend.

When we were just 19 and early in our college days, I made an 8-hour journey in a bus during a snowstorm to visit her at her school in rural Minnesota. This was just what you did to see your friend.

But I am no longer this excellent friend I used to be. I’m not even a mediocre friend right now. Not to this friend I’ve known since I was 14, and not really to anybody.

I used to be the one to organize the surprise parties. I used to be the one who collected letters and photos for scrapbooks to commemorate big events like a friend’s first baby or my in-law’s 40th wedding anniversary.

Now, when I get a notification by email that I’ve been included in someone’s Meal Train, I shudder.

I can barely even come up with a plan to feed my own family each night, let alone have the time to bake someone else a lasagna. Even the thought of the time it would take to drive over to someone else’s house and drop off the lasagna seems overwhelming.

I’ve now become the kind of person who misses birthdays, who texts instead of calls, who forgets to write the thank you notes to family for their generous gifts to my kids.

And this is never the kind of person I wanted to be.

The hardest part of all of this for me is how much I value friendship and community. I am an only child, and I never had guaranteed companions growing up. I’ve always known I had to work to make friends, and that I had to work to hold onto them.

I know all about the work it takes to invest in friendships, and yet I often feel that I have nothing left to give.

Perhaps this is just the season I’m in now, and my friends will understand. Perhaps in a few years once my kids don’t need me so close at hand I’ll be freed up to bake someone else a lasagna.

Or maybe it really is time for something bolder.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my own upcoming 40th birthday. I won’t be jumping out of a plane or completing any rigorous physical feats of strength. But rebuilding my community right now feels just about as bold as anything.

I’ve been thinking about what I need to restructure in my life to make my friendships feel real again. I think, unfortunately, this has to start with me. I can’t keep waiting for someone else to be a good friend to me if I can’t reach out myself.

So this year, I am committing to phone calls. I am committing to plane tickets to visit the people I miss.

I am committing to being the one to organize a group dinner even when I am tired, and the one to bake double of something so that I can surprise a friend with a meal every once in a while.

I know the lesson I am often repeating to myself these days is to let go, to say no more often. But I have a sinking suspicion that saying no won’t work in this case. This is one area where putting forth more effort is worth it.

Instead of waiting years to show up for other people, I need to find new ways to become an excellent friend again.

Tonight, I’m starting with this letter to my dear friend. It’s far less exciting than a care package or a late-night Indian restaurant in the Lower East Side.

But it’s what I can offer at this moment.

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