What I Learned from the Friendships I Pushed Away

I once believed that genuine fondness was a myth — that it always came with a condition, a hidden cost.

You see, high school wasn't the most colorful of experiences.

Academically? I did fine—excellently, sometimes.

Socially? I can only sigh.

I started high school deeply alienated from others. It felt like a whole new world. Everyone seemed so different and daunting.

Long story short, I didn't blend in, I couldn't. I didn't know how to be 'interesting' and 'fun'—someone with the energy that others easily gravitated to and found charming.

It didn't help that I was the quiet and timid type. My physical appearance at the time—forgettable.

My shell only grew bigger and more comfortable. Coming out of it became a painful, herculean task.

Classmates labeled me as weird, some teachers thought I was snobbish. But I was just a shy girl with poor social skills. My self-esteem was hanging by a thread.

What probably worsened it was that I didn't mind being alone—I enjoyed my own company.

For over a year, I had no friend—until Grade 8, JSS2 when a classmate (I'll call her Abby) came along.

We clicked. Conversations flowed easily. She was chatty, I was a good listener. Her company brought me peace.

Then I noticed something. There are serial killers, and there are serial borrowers. Abby was the latter.

Every week, she'd ask for lunch money. I always gave it, never demanding repayment. But when I needed help, she would hesitate or refuse.

It would hurt because I saw her as someone I would do anything for.

But I began to see that to her, I was just a friend of convenience. She only became close because of what she was benefiting from, not because I was someone she liked.

Of course, our relationship ended when I stopped giving her what she wanted. I felt so betrayed.

I remember crying, wailing like it was the end of the world. I was so hurt because for once, I thought I had found a true friend. Instead, she ended up using me.

I don't know, but it broke something in me. My perspective on friendships changed—I didn't see it as something meant for me.

Maybe it was because I took our relationship a little too seriously. I invested my all into it. She was my first friend in high school and I felt obliged to make it count. I didn't know how to water down my love and care for someone. I didn't think it was something to be watered down.

Since then, I made a few mistakes I now regret.

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A few months after the incident with Abby, something unexpected happened. A few older girls seemed to warm up to me.

We were family friends, and we'd often visit each other at our individual homes. They were really kind and helpful, always lifting me up and encouraging me to be comfortable around them.

But their efforts were futile. I was always anxious in their presence.

At times, they would try to be affectionate—envelope me in a hug. I would freeze.

Time and again they would offer me gifts, or just their time. I would hesitantly receive them—not because I didn't appreciate their gesture, but because I was scared. It didn't make sense why they were so nice to me. There had to be a hidden agenda.

Once, I told one of them: "I don't think we can be friends because you're much older than me." We only had a five-year gap.

Thirteen-year-old me couldn't fathom someone liking me, let alone an older teen. What was their business with me?

Understandably, after I said those words, our relationship dwindled. She didn't seek me out anymore, and I felt a strange sense of relief.

The other girl became distant too. Not because I said anything, but because I wasn't reciprocal of her warmth.

The same pattern repeated with other acquaintances who had the potential of becoming beautiful friends. My fear of becoming attached made it impossible for me to even remotely connect with them.

It took a few years to realize what I had done—what I had lost.

I still see those girls from time to time. Though there is no hostility—in fact, there is a measure of warmth—there is this ache that spreads whenever I realize things might never be the same again.

I had sabotaged something so beautiful because of a past trauma.

It took a lot of maturity to reflect on the past and recognize I was in the wrong. There was no one to blame for the loss, but me.

I still quietly grieve the relationships I fumbled because of an old wound. I still mourn the possibilities, the what-could-have-beens.

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But as I grew older, instead of drowning in the ache, I sought things I could learn from my mistakes.

I learned that one bad experience doesn't have to dictate the outcome of future ones. Once bitten? Maybe you can try again with discernment.

As my self-esteem grew, I found an abundance of things I loved about myself. It became easier to believe that others saw those things as well.

I came to understand that not every act of kindness comes with an ulterior motive. Some people are genuinely pure-hearted.

And lastly? I learned to come out of my shell more, to initiate conversations, and show genuine interest in others.

Now, when someone offers genuine kindness, I pause before assuming the worst. I ask myself: What evidence do I have of manipulation? Often, there is none. I've learned to distinguish between healthy boundaries and walls built from fear.

I still protect my heart, but I do it differently now. I observe people's actions over time. I notice whether they show up consistently, whether they respect my boundaries, whether they care about my wellbeing without expecting something in return.

There are so many fun, interesting, intelligent, amazing people everywhere that I desperately need to experience.

I’m done letting old wounds dictate the new. The world is full of conversations I haven’t had yet, laughter I haven’t joined, and people I haven’t met — and I can’t wait to meet them.

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Does this resonate with you?