“You have been approaching adult friendship the same way you did as a kid – you just expected it to happen. The Let Them Theory empowers you to stop expecting friendship to happen and to take responsibility for creating it.” – Mel Robbins

I always felt unlucky when it came to friendship. That feeling first took root in elementary school after my family moved to a new city. At six years old, I found myself surrounded by formerly established friend groups and inside jokes. Eager to connect, I told them stories of my old home with the elevator in my house (apartment). Instead of interest, I got side-eye accusations and was labeled a Liar for trying to show off. Coupled with my faint Polish accent, that experience dimmed my bright personality into something quieter and more cautious. I became shy. It felt safer to be unnoticed, especially when no one seemed to understand me or at least try.

That false instinct followed me for years to come. I hovered on the edges of social groups. Present, but never essential. Included, but not invited.

By eighth grade, I had one lifeline: a friend who lived 9 houses down from me. In the summer, we were inseparable. Sitting on the fence, we formed the Hawaiian Sexy Girls Club. We were neither Hawaiian nor sexy, but we’re endlessly entertained by our own private world. However, when school returned, she chose popularity over loyalty. I became invisible again, scrambling for project partners while she sat with the girls who wore TNA and Lululemon.

In high school, I drifted through people. I didn’t expect to be anyone’s first choice, so maybe that’s why I picked friends who had other priorities. I gravitated toward male-centered female friendships. Also known as those who made more space for the men in their lives. It felt familiar. Comfortably unequal.

One of those friends was M. We got so close that we co-parented a pair of hamsters, trading them back and forth between our homes. At the same time, she started dating a co-worker of mine, K. K and I were close too. We shared big dreams while stacking shoe boxes in the back of our retail job.

When K cheated on M, he came to me with the truth. He told me exactly what happened and with whom. I never got the chance to tell her. She didn’t ask and didn’t want to hear it. Instead, she made up her mind and placed the blame on me. Our friendship ended abruptly, and worse, she let others believe I was at fault. I wasn’t just pushed away; my name was dragged through the mud.

Soon after, came A. She was bold, wild, and magnetic. We bonded over our love of partying, new adventures, and our shared hunger for excitement. She was talking to older boys before the rest of us learned how to flirt. We laughed about how no one understood us, our energy, and our freedom.

When she started dating AA, a rough-around-the-edges guy with an energy drink habit and littering problem, I tolerated him…for her. That tolerance broke when he dropped off coffee at my workplace and said, “I like A, but I like you too.” I warned her. I told her to pay attention to the red flags and the messages from other girls. Instead, in a fit of rage, he flipped the narrative, and convinced her that I was the problem. She chose him. She told everyone his version. I was dropped again.

By then, I’d grown used to friendships fading without warning. Sometimes over new boyfriends, sometimes in the name of “self-discovery,” and sometimes for no clear reason at all. So when I met C in my third year of university, I kept my guard up. I told myself she wasn’t going to be my friend. I wouldn’t let her be.

But the universe had other plans.

C carried her own friendship scars. We connected quickly, bonding over the feeling of being misunderstood. For the first time, I felt like I met someone who truly got me. She didn’t just feel like a friend, she felt like a soulmate. We used to joke that no one else would ever match our energy. That no one would ever get it the way we did.

We traveled together, met each other’s families, and celebrated every win like it was our own. She made me better. I know I did the same for her.

Looking back, I wish the friendship ended at our 24th birthday party (a day we shared (literally and symbolically)). She got drunk and unraveled, screaming and lashing out when she saw me talking to the guy she liked. I was humiliated in front of all of our guests. Later that night, we sat down in our Airbnb and talked it through. She apologized, and we promised to reset, to rebuild.

But something had shifted. The cracks had deepened. Slowly, we stopped bringing out the best in each other and began feeding into each other’s worst habits. Our boundaries blurred. Still, I stayed because she was my best friend. My person. The basket that I decided to place all my eggs.

Until the day she fired me as her maid of honor.

Months of wedding chaos came to a head. Once again, I found myself labeled as the villain in a story I didn’t write. She didn’t just cut me out of her wedding. She also made sure I carried the blame for her own bad decisions. She clung to her new fiancé, a man I had only ever tolerated for her sake. A man who actively tried to remove me from her life since the beginning. A man who leveraged her guilt and shame to relinquish our friendship.

For days after, I stared into the mirror. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked over and over. “Why do all my friendships end like this? Am I the problem? Am I actually the toxic one?”

Therapy gave me new language. Therapy helped me understand that she carried her own destruction and sabotage. Blaming me softened the blow of facing herself. Yes, I made terrible mistakes too – chief among them, trying to support her in ways she never supported me.

I started to see the pattern.

I chose friendships where I shouldered the emotional labor. I soothed, explained, and smoothed things over. I became the safe one to blame, because I’m always trying to make it better. My default was self-doubt: “Did I do something wrong?” And when people wanted to offload guilt, I was the convenient target.

I learned to normalize being praised for staying quiet, helpful, and small. It’s no wonder I tolerated being treated unfairly later on.

In tight-knit groups, especially ones that thrive on insecurity, like the one that eventually C and I created, someone always gets cast out. That someone was often me.

I recently came across Mel Robbins’ “Let Them Theory.” She breaks down adult friendships into three factors: proximity, timing, and energy.

• Proximity means you see each other often. That’s why school friendships happen naturally.
• Timing means your life phases match up. If one person is starting a family and the other is in school, the friendship often falters.
• Energy is mutual effort. If you plan the first hangout, they plan the next one.

Looking back, the beginning of the end with C started when we moved out of our shared apartment. Distance grew, both physically and emotionally. Then she got engaged to T. I truly believe that he brought out the worst in both of them. Their relationship turned toxic fast, but she dove deeper into the mess while leaving me behind.

I’m not writing this to say I’ve figured everything out. I now understand something important. I deserve friendships where I don’t have to earn love. Love shouldn’t be earned by being useful, convenient, or enabling. I don’t want to be the person who smooths everything over anymore. I want to be chosen, seen, and safe.

Maybe you do too.