In high school, I had a friend named Jamie.* After a series of unfortunate events, she told me that she needed time to think about whether she could still be friends with me. She told me that I was someone she looked up to and that I had disappointed her. Looking back on the situation, I should’ve known that she wasn’t worth it, that I shouldn’t have wanted to be friends with someone who didn’t want to be friends with me. But I was 16 and naive, and I believed in us. She was my best friend, and I was unwilling to let go of our friendship without a fight.
I tried to give her space, but when days and weeks passed by without hearing from her, I decided to reach out. I called her; she didn’t answer. I left her voicemail after voicemail. I remember apologizing to her, although technically, I didn’t do anything wrong telling her that I’d do anything to win back our friendship; she never responded. When her birthday rolled around, I went to the mall to search for the perfect gift. I bought her a shirt and a pair of earrings and wrote her a handwritten letter several pages long. I told her that she was my best friend, that I was sorry, and that if she ever wanted to talk, I would always be there for her.
Eventually, she acknowledged me, but it was never the same after that. She treated me like a passing acquaintance, and I was heartbroken. It was then when I realized I didn’t know how to let go.
For a long time, I thought this was a good characteristic. I was a loyal friend who didn’t give up on people. The Bible says the amount of times you need to forgive is up to 70 times seven. And I thought this meant that I should be the person who forgives no matter what, who needs to try harder, love fiercely, and never let go of her relationships.
Jamie was the first, but she wasn’t the last. This problem stayed with me throughout high school and college. I forgave friends who blew me off or didn’t invite me to events. I justified a friend’s actions when he invaded my privacy. I made excuses for someone who was physically and emotionally abusive towards me.
Accepting their feeble apologies, I was convinced they cared about me and told myself to be more patient, more loving. They’re busy. Some people aren’t good at keeping in touch, I assured myself. He didn’t mean it. He’s going through a lot. I felt silly for wanting their affection, but the truth was that it hurt. It hurt to always be the one reaching out, the only one who seemed to care about the relationship. It hurt when the love that I extended to others was returned with neglect, betrayal, bitter words, and beatings.
But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized there’s a difference between forgiveness and reconciliation. We are called to forgive — to reunite, to mend broken relationships — but sometimes the other party isn’t willing to make that step or relationships are damaged beyond repair. Sometimes there are toxic people, dangerous people, who are physically, mentally, and spiritually unhealthy, who cause you more harm than good.
Letting go isn’t easy, but I’ve realized that my friendship is valuable, and my well-being is important. Letting go doesn’t mean that I’m loving others less, but that I’m loving myself more.
And I am learning that relationships shouldn’t be one-sided. I am learning to let go of those who clearly do not care about me, those who seek to tear me down rather than build me up. I am learning that some friendships are meant for only a season and that there is a purpose and a lesson amidst the pain and brokenness.
To this day, I still think about reaching out to people in my past. There is a part of me that wonders, Did I do everything I could? But then I remember Adam Lindsay Gordson’s words: “…don’t worry about people from your past, there’s a reason why they didn’t make it to your future.”
*Name has been changed for privacy
Photo (Flickr CC) by bunnysuicides.
