“It hurts differently when you realize you’re not the first call, just the convenient one.”

Quill

Have you ever noticed how your phone only seems to ring after someone’s original plan fall through?

I’m very familiar with the— Are you busy? text— sent ten minutes before needing to be somewhere.

I don’t know if that’s just adulthood or if that’s always how its been.

Friendships in adulthood can feel like a fight between effort and good intentions.

I don’t have the most conventional check in tactics, but I check in because I care about my people. Though lately, it feels a lot like a losing battle. 

I’ll show up even when I’d rather claw my eyes out— like it’s expected to always be available.

But somewhere down the road, I’ve mistaken consistency for closeness.  

Still, I can’t help but get excited when they call, their name flashes across my screen—even if the excitement is started to dim.

I couldn’t tell you if I don’t matter to them or if I just matter when it’s coinvent for them

And that my friends is a hard pill to swallow.

Maybe it’s common for friendships to fade; or at least shuffle a bit fit the moment’s needs. One day, you wake up to a version of you who used to be the first call has moved to you looking from the outside in.

And despite what’s said, everyone slips up— and the truth is reviled.

You’re the back up plan.

But you never realized.

When Effort Feels One-Sided

“I check in, I show up, I remember. But it feels like I’m shouting into a friendship that only echoes when they need it to.”

For me, friendship has always been a give and take transaction, easy effort flowing in both directions.

If I buy myself a coffee, you can expect one too—not because I expect anything back, but because that’s what friendship is to me.

It’s an automatic expression to say, I was thinking about you.

It’s not really about the grand gestures. What matters most to me, is the basic human decency you would want for yourself—A quiet expectation of care.

Lately? It seems like I’m waiting around for empty promises.

I keep showing up—available, kind, realizing I get that you know you’re always welcome to come over whenever you want.

Maybe that’s fine, but it’s hard not to notice when my effort is pushed aside.

It’s not about bragging; it’s about the care behind it. 

Emotional labor is invisible until you’re the one suddenly carrying “how to cope” pamphlets. 

Suddenly I’ve become the unpaid intern— carrying the good, bad, and ugly, running on delusion and caffeine.

When my grandma died, I expected the normal sympathies’ and condolences. But I waited for on particular friend—one who granny treated as her own.

I thought this friend would do the bare minimum—check in, just a quick “I’m sorry you’re hurting, hang in there.”

But the message never came—No text, call, or even a social media ping.

That silence… told me everything I needed.

“It’s exhausting to keep showing up for people who only remember you when their plans change.”

It’s like they take all the good and leave you hollow.

And you’re left in a white space with nothing but an abandoned echo. 

I don’t think the sting came from being left out—at least not anymore.

But the sting really came from being considered an afterthought. Like my own feelings or time was less valuable than others. 

The subtle realization that I’m not the the go to person; I’m a failsafe. 

The ever reliable rain check, cashed in every time the first choice flakes.

The worst part? It’s a subconscious choice. On their part. They don’t even realize they’re doing it— when was the last time I was their friend?

And for me, that question was enough to shatter my delusion of friendship. Why?

Because the tiny fragile links I created to stay connected were never met. Not even half way

“It hurts to realize that consistency isn’t the same as closeness.”

Maybe the hardest realization of growing up is accepting that effort alone can’t sustain friendships or any kind of “ship” for that matter. 

Because friendship shouldn’t feel like waiting for someone else to flake.

It should fee like being part of the plan from the start. 

The Space Between Grace and Guilt

“I used to think being available made me a good friend. I’m starting to wonder if it just made me easy to forget.”

I have this strange tug-of-war inside me — the part that wants to be understanding, and the part that’s fed up with always being understanding.

Telling myself, They’re just busy. Life happens. Everyone’s overwhelmed, all of that is probably true.

But so is this: it hurts to feel like an option instead of a priority.

I get it—they aren’t obligated to treat me to my standards. It’s been so long since giving people grace that I’ve forgotten…I need it too.

Because every time I waved off the sting or choke down disappointment. I didn’t realize I was teaching myself—everyone that my feeling were inconvenient.

That wanting reciprocity equaled needy.

“Am I overreacting? Do I expect too much?”

These questions circled like sharks in the water after every unanswered text, every canceled plan I gaslighted myself into thinking doesn’t matter.

Maybe that’s what self-doubt does — it turns genuine hurt into something to feel guilt about having.

The loneliness of one-sided friendship isn’t loud.

It sneaks up on you—like hiking through the mountain trails, you know you’re in the wild but still freezing you when you see a cougar on the trail.

You realize that maybe you were giving more than you were receiving, and making peace with that truth feels like grieving someone who’s still alive.

Because the truth is, I don’t have it in me to resent anyone.
I just want to stop shrinking myself to not be so easy to forget.

“I want to be chosen, not just available.”

And maybe that’s where the healing starts — in finally admitting that being kind doesn’t mean being invisible, and that boundaries aren’t walls, they’re reminders of what love should feel like when it’s mutual.

Turning Towards My Own Light

“Being kind doesn’t mean being on call.”

Being kind doesn’t mean being on call.

That was a lesson I learned slowly— not with an explosion, but with a quiet exhaustion of always being the “yes” person.

The friend who is understanding, accommodating the one who just goes with the flow because their so nice.

But growing through the years, I’ve realized that boundaries shouldn’t be considered punishment— they’re clarity.

It’s how I tell the world, this is where I end and you begin.

They’re how I make sure the kindness I give doesn’t cost my emotional well being. I use to think that pulling back meant that I’m overreacting or being selfish, but truthfully its just what a healthy life needed.

Because when you stop chasing validation, you start noticing who’s walking with you, not by force but by choice.

And that’s where reciprocity lives — in the quiet gestures, the ones that don’t need reminders.

Love isn’t measured by how much you give; it’s reflected in how naturally it’s returned.

 I keep coming back to this image: Plants growing lopsided because it’s always reaching towards someone else’s light.

That used to be me — bending, stretching, contorting myself to stay close to people who never turned my way.

And then I realized I could move the pot.

I could turn myself toward the sun instead of waiting for someone else ‘s light to shine on my way.

Friendship, I think, should be like sunlight through leaves — shared, soft, and natural.

Not something you have to chase, or prove, or water alone.

And maybe this is what growth looks like now:
Not blooming for someone else’s attention, but growing evenly — because I finally stopped leaning so far away from myself.

Choosing Peace Over Being Chosen

I still care. But now, I care from a distance that doesn’t drain me.

There’s a quiet kind of peace that comes when you stop waiting to be chosen.

Not the loud kind that demands attention — but the soft, steady peace that comes from finally choosing yourself.

I’ve realized you can love people and still know when it’s time to step back.

You can care deeply and still admit that the friendship doesn’t feel safe anymore. And that’s not bitterness — that’s acceptance.

It’s the moment you stop mistaking proximity for closeness, and realize that being included isn’t the same as being valued.

“Sometimes peace isn’t in fixing the connection — it’s in freeing yourself from having to earn it.”

I still believe in showing up for people, but now I understand that showing up for myself matters too.

Love — the real kind — makes space for you without needing to be reminded you exist.

And I deserve to be someone’s first thought, not their afterthought.

Because choosing yourself isn’t selfish.

It’s just the first time you stopped waiting to be someone else’s backup plan.

Have you ever realized you were someone’s backup plan — and what did you do when you finally stopped waiting to be picked?