I've been sitting with a frustration lately that I haven't quite known how to put into words.
Friendship.
More specifically, the loneliness that comes with realizing how many relationships only seem to exist because you're the one keeping them alive.
You're the one reaching out. You're the one asking how everyone is doing. You're the one checking in, making plans, remembering what's going on in people's lives.
And then one day, you stop.
And it gets quiet.
Really quiet.
I think what's been especially difficult for me is knowing that the people in my life know what I've been walking through.
They know my circumstances. They know I'm raising three children, navigating an entirely different life than the one I expected, working, healing, and trying to keep everything together.
They know.
And yet, sometimes weeks go by without a simple, "Hey, how are you holding up?"
And I don't think people realize how much that can hurt.
I know everyone has their own life.
Before anything else, I want to acknowledge something.
I know people are busy.
I know everyone has their own struggles, responsibilities, families, jobs, and things happening behind closed doors. I don't expect anyone to drop everything for me. I don't expect constant communication or to be the center of anyone's world.
I understand that adulthood is exhausting.
But I also think we've gotten a little too comfortable using busyness as an excuse for neglecting the people we claim to love.
Because checking on someone doesn't have to be complicated.
It doesn't require a two-hour phone call, an elaborate plan, or an invitation to dinner.
Sometimes it's just a text.
"Thinking about you today."
"How are you really doing?"
"Do you need anything?"
That's it.
And I think we've lost sight of how much those little things matter.
I will never beg someone to care about me.
One thing I've learned through this season is that I refuse to beg for friendship.
I won't beg someone to check on me.
I won't beg someone to remember that I'm going through something difficult.
I won't beg someone to show up.
Not because I'm too proud to admit that I need people, but because I believe genuine care should come from a place of love, not obligation.
I don't want someone reaching out because I made them feel guilty.
I want someone reaching out because they genuinely thought of me.
Because somewhere in the middle of their busy day, they remembered that someone they love might be struggling.
And I think there's a difference between expecting too much from people and simply wanting reciprocity.
I don't need grand gestures.
I just don't want to feel like I'm constantly reminding people that I exist.
Being strong doesn’t mean I don’t need anyone.
I think this is something that gets overlooked, especially when you're the person everyone assumes will figure it out.
People see you working, parenting, laughing, posting pictures, going about your day, and they assume you're okay.
Because you're functioning.
Because you're showing up.
Because you haven't completely fallen apart.
But functioning and being okay are two very different things.
Sometimes the people who appear to have everything handled are the ones who desperately need someone to ask how they're doing.
And I think that's been one of the loneliest parts of this season for me.
Not necessarily the circumstances themselves, but realizing how easily people can assume you're fine simply because you're still standing.
We’ve gotten too comfortable with surface level friendship.
I genuinely wonder when we became so disconnected.
We can watch someone's Instagram stories every single day, know where they went for coffee, what their kids wore to school, and what they did over the weekend.
But somehow never ask how their heart is doing.
We can be completely caught up on someone's social media and completely absent from their actual life.
And that bothers me.
Because friendship was never supposed to be reduced to watching each other's lives from a distance.
It's supposed to involve showing up.
Remembering.
Checking in.
Noticing when someone has gone quiet.
And sometimes being the person who reaches out first, even when you were the last one to text.
I'm not saying friendships need to be perfectly balanced at every moment. There will always be seasons when one person has more to give than the other.
But there should be mutual effort.
There should be intentionality.
There should be some indication that the relationship matters to both people.
I’m learning to let the silence speak.
This season has taught me a lot about relationships.
Some of those lessons have been beautiful.
Others have been incredibly disappointing.
I'm learning that I can love people without constantly pursuing them. I can understand that someone has their own life while also acknowledging that their absence hurts.
I can extend grace without pretending I'm not disappointed.
And I can stop carrying the responsibility of maintaining every relationship by myself.
That doesn't mean I'm angry.
It doesn't mean I'm keeping score.
It just means I'm recognizing that friendship should not feel like a one-person effort.
And maybe part of growing is learning to stop forcing connections that only survive because you refuse to let them go quiet.
A reminder to check on your people.
If there's anything I hope someone takes away from this, it's this:
Check on your people.
Not just the ones who are visibly falling apart.
Not just the ones who reach out first.
Not just when something tragic happens.
Check on the friend who's always busy. The mom who's doing everything alone. The person going through a divorce. The friend who seems strong. The one who always says, "I'm good."
Because sometimes they're not.
And sometimes they're tired of being the one who always has to initiate connection.
Galatians 6:2 tells us to “Bear one another’s burdens…”
I think about that verse often.
We're called to carry one another's burdens. Not necessarily to fix everything, but to be present. To care. To remind people they aren't walking through life alone.
And I don't think that should be as rare as it sometimes feels.
I don't want this season to make me bitter. I don't want disappointment to turn me into someone who stops caring deeply about others.
But I do want it to make me more intentional about the people who are intentional with me.
Because I know what it feels like to wish someone would simply check in.
And I never want the people I love to have to wonder whether I care.
Maybe we don't need more friends. Maybe we just need to start being better friends to the people we already have.
And maybe it's time we stop assuming that because someone is surviving, they don't need to be loved through it.