Outgrowing Us

It was around this time last year that one of my closest friends and I stopped talking.

I told her I couldn’t handle our conversations anymore and needed space. Now, more than a year later, I find myself looking back at not just on how our friendship ended but also on how it all began. For the sake of this story, let’s call her Katie.

Our breakup wasn’t loud or confrontational. It was quiet, a gradual unravelling that stretched over many years—until one day, we simply stopped messaging each other.

Katie and I met nearly a decade ago in Hanoi, Vietnam, when we were just 21 years old, living carefree lives. I had moved to Vietnam to open a hostel and she was one of the guests staying there. I remember our first meeting vividly. It was late and I had just returned from a date with the guy who would later become my boyfriend. She was sitting in the lobby, laptop open, working. She complimented my hair and I returned the compliment. It was such a simple, innocent exchange, but her energy felt warm and genuine. And that was it—I stepped into the lift and went up to my room.

a still from a video she took and one of the last times we ever saw each other

The next morning, while I was working the front desk, she came down for breakfast and was surprised to see me there. “Oh my god, I didn’t know you worked here!” she said, wide-eyed. I smiled and explained, “Yeah, I also run this place with Mien and Stuart.” She was gobsmacked—impressed, even—and from that moment, we started spending time together.

We’d meet for coffee during my breaks, chatting about boys and trading dreams for the future. Katie had this sharp wit and big laugh that could light up a room. A Jewish New Yorker with all the unapologetic energy of a big city, she intrigued me in a way that felt familiar—me being from London, I could relate. We both shared a love for adventure , she was clever, thoughtful and dependable in a way that made me feel safe, like we’d always have each other’s backs.

At times, it felt like we came from completely different worlds but we always found this brilliant common ground in our ambition and drive, united by a shared respect for the lives we were trying to create. Back then, dreaming big was second nature, almost effortless. The world felt wide open, brimming with possibility, we were just these 21 years old hanging out in Hanoi. 

As time passed, though, our paths began to diverge. Careers evolved, priorities shifted and life started pulling us in different directions. Yet somehow, the bond we had managed to hold. Every few years, we’d meet in a new country, sharing quick, memorable bursts of connection—brief reminders of the friendship we had built. Those reunions let us sidestep the harder truths about how much we’d grown apart, at least for a while.

Katie and I were opposites in many ways. She carried this unapologetic spoilt bitch energy, wearing it like armour, while I had a more flexible, go-with-the-flow mindset. For example, if a restaurant messed up our order, I’d laugh it off and say, No worries, we’ll figure it out, while Katie would call the waiter over and insist it be fixed immediately.

I was just far more British in my thinking—overly polite to a fault. Oh, you dropped the bread on my lap? No worries at all! Look, I’m still eating it, all good. Katie, however, had a quintessentially American expectation of wanting and demanding better. These differences in how we approached the world were both amusing and at times frustrating. Still, we balanced each other out in a way that worked for us. 

Throughout my 20s, I found myself constantly pivoting—chasing creativity, embracing adventure and living a hedonistic, experience-driven life. It was a whirlwind of travel, reinvention and prioritising moments that made me feel alive. Katie, on the other hand stayed firmly rooted in New York, steadily building a life there with focus and consistency.

Over the years, Katie and I often discussed Israel and Palestine. For the most part, we saw eye to eye, using those conversations as a space to process the news and share our anger and frustration. I remember vividly when the IDF stormed a mosque during Ramadan years ago—shoes on, aggressively dragging people out. It was important for Katie to hear why that moment upset me so deeply, my perspective made the topic feel more personal, more real to her. Katie’s Jewish identity shaped her own views and for a long time, we approached these discussions with curiosity and respect. But as time passed, the dynamic began to shift.

Katie’s alliance with Israel grew stronger, while my frustrations with events in Palestine only intensified. Tension began to creep in where understanding once lived. What had started as open dialogue gradually became uncomfortable, even contentious.

As the situation in Palestine worsened, I found it harder and harder to stay silent. At the same time, Katie became more militant in her thoughts and unwavering in her support for Israel. What had once been a difference in perspective deepened into a fundamental conflict of values and morals. This wasn’t about her not being kind or lovely—because she is. And it wasn’t about me being unkind, either. But this growing divide became the last straw.

Our ten years of friendship didn’t end in one dramatic moment—it unraveled slowly, over time, as so much between us began to change.

As I grew more confident in myself and my choices, Katie seemed to grow more insecure and that shift in energy widened the gap between us. While I focused on my independence and personal happiness, Katie appeared to lean more heavily on external validation. Over time, this dynamic began to show in subtle ways—comments about my decisions, a lack of support for the path I was taking and a quiet tension that became impossible to ignore.

I loved going out to dance and laugh, simply enjoying the night for what it was. For me, it was always about the experience and the freedom to let loose. But with Katie, there was often an unspoken pressure—like the night wasn’t complete unless certain expectations were met. It added a weight to our evenings, making it harder to simply exist in the moment.

Bit by bit, these differences built up and the friendship that once felt so natural and effortless became strained under the weight of all that had changed.

Reflecting on this, I’ve realised the kind of friend I want to be and the friendships I want to nurture. In my 20s, my social circle was wide and varied—true friends, acquaintances, even the occasional frenemy. It suited that chapter of exploration and saying yes to everything.

Now in my 30s, I value depth over breadth. It’s not about how many friends I have—it’s about the quality of those connections. My circle has naturally grown smaller, but the relationships I have now feel richer. I’m drawn to people who share my values, bring kindness and positivity, and communicate openly.

Good communication is non-negotiable. Without it, how can we navigate misunderstandings or tough moments? Trust and honesty are the foundation of any meaningful connection. I want friendships where I can speak freely and know my friends have my back, not just out of loyalty but because the relationship feels mutual and uplifting.

I’m also drawn to friends committed to personal growth. In our 20s, we had space to work through jealousy, anger or insecurity, but by now, I expect the people in my life to have done or be doing that work. If not, well… it’s uncomfortable, isn’t it?

Ultimately, I want friendships rooted in trust, kindness, and shared values—relationships that are stable, supportive, and inspiring. And I aim to be that kind of friend in return. Life’s too short for anything less.

I think another big factor in the unravelling of our friendship was how social media amplified our connection, creating an illusion of closeness that masked the growing distance between us. Online, Katie would often comment on my posts with things like, “Yes, girl, you look beautiful!” moments drawn from the highlights of my life. These interactions gave the appearance of a strong bond but they were surface-level. A quick like or comment can’t replace real depth.

Social media is a strange paradox: it makes you feel less lonely, as though you’re maintaining a bond but it’s not the same as the connection that comes from real time spent together. Online, our friendship seemed intact but when we were face-to-face, it was clear we’d grown into very different people. The curated closeness of social media didn’t reflect the reality of our relationship and that disconnect became harder to ignore.

What social media hides are the messier parts of friendship—the small jealousies, insecurities and unspoken comparisons. It doesn’t show the glances, the quiet frustrations or the unspoken tensions that can fester. Instead, it creates a polished version of friendship that can’t always hold up in real life.

I don’t want to paint Katie as a villain in our friendship because she was simply living her truth. She believed what she believed and lived in a way that felt authentic to her. Similarly, I had my own beliefs and way of living, and over time, it became clear that our truths no longer aligned.

The hardest part wasn’t Katie herself—it was confronting my own role in the dynamic. I’d spent so much of our friendship people-pleasing, tied to a relationship that had stopped working for me long ago. Walking away felt impossible, especially after so many years. But looking back, I see how that constant need to keep the peace stemmed from a place of how I viewed my own self-worth. It’s what made me tolerate things I shouldn’t, ignore red flags and let my own boundaries slide. The worst part? It quietly built resentment not just toward Katie, but toward myself for allowing it to continue.

Breaking free from this pattern was one of the most transformative lessons of my life. It wasn’t just about letting go of a friendship that had run its course; it was about reclaiming my sense of self. Katie and I had simply outgrown each other—two people moving in different directions, shaped by different values. In our friendship, we both leaned into a tendency to keep the peace but looking back, I see that I did it more. That imbalance left the relationship feeling heavy and ultimately, toxic for me.

Letting go was liberating. It gave me a newfound sense of confidence. I stopped seeking validation from others and began focusing on relationships that feel mutual, respectful and rooted in shared values. That shift changed everything. I no longer cling to connections that don’t serve me and for the first time, I feel a real sense of peace.

I’ve shed so many surface-level connections along the way. Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do—for yourself and for others—is recognize when a relationship has reached its natural end and let it go.

For the longest time, I was devastated over what happened between Katie and me. I kept asking myself, Does the good outweigh the bad? But the truth was, we had become entirely different people. Losing that friendship felt like an immense loss and the pain ran deep. Sometimes I wanted to call her or text her but I didn’t. It’s sad but, in hindsight it became the catalyst for something greater—it forced me to take a hard, honest look at myself. That process, though deeply painful, ended up reshaping everything for me.

I loved her. I loved her like she was my sister. But sometimes, love isn’t enough to sustain a relationship when your paths and values diverge so profoundly. It didn’t work out and that’s okay. As much as it stung, it was a necessary step in my growth, and for that, I am grateful.

The track I’ll leave you with today is Often Enough by Ojerime.

Love,

Rez x