Sarala Life — Life in Chapters: Careers, Canines, Cabernet & Courage

The Season I stopped Begging for Love.

It took me twelve years to realize that someone I called a true friend was never really my friend at all.

Twelve years.

And even when she stopped speaking to me, I still didn’t believe it.

I held on to the story of us long after the story had already ended.

It wasn’t until another friend—now also an ex-friend—sat down with me over various “get togethers” cooking and laughing in my kitchen that the years of two-faced deception began to unravel and the truth began to surface. The many conversations she had apparently had about me. The times she said we weren’t really friends. That she was just “going along with me.” That I was pressuring her.

All while we traveled together, spoke every day, shared traditions, celebrated milestones. She was my self-proclaimed best friend. I rallied for her, defended her, turned up for her when life was hard. I dragged my poor husband to her family home every Christmas Eve for years because it was “our tradition.” She was a permanent fixture in my life.

And yet, it was all built on a lie.

She even lived in my home for over a year—rent free—when she was rebuilding her life. I wanted to give her a safe place, a soft landing, because that’s what friends do.

Or at least, that’s what I thought we were.

Looking back, I can see how my own childhood loneliness shaped my judgment. My desire to be loved. To belong. I poured and poured into that friendship, hoping it would finally fill something in me.

Maybe I wasn’t a perfect friend. I’m sure I wasn’t. But I loved her the best way I knew how at the time.

And in the end, it still dissolved without closure—except the closure that came later when I learned the convenient narrative she had been telling about me all along.

They say you become who you associate with.

Truth be told, shedding that entire circle—my “musketeers”—was a blessing in disguise. I was dropping my standards, exhausting myself, pouring into people whose cups could never be filled with authenticity because they simply weren’t my people.

They were stuck. Unhealed. Not doing the work.

And I was trying to save friendships that were never meant to be saved.

I thought writing about this would stir up emotion. That I would feel anger or sadness or resentment.

But the truth is—I feel nothing.

No rage.
No heartbreak.
No longing for what was.

And that, in itself, is a lesson.

It means I’ve done the work.

I’ve come to understand that the friendship served its purpose. Maybe it was meant to teach me what loving too much and too disproportionately can do. Maybe it was meant to teach me about seasons. About boundaries. About releasing people without guilt.

My season of shedding has been long, vast, and strangely fruitful—if such a thing can be said.

For every friendship I have lost, space has opened up. Space for myself. Space for healing. Space for relationships that are honest and mutual—where mirrors have become windows.

Do I regret some losses? Of course. There are two that still sit softly in my heart. One I’ve already written about. One that lives in a grey area—a season that is good for both of us right now.

But I’ve learned this: real friendships are not built only in trauma.

They are built in mutual pouring.
In meaningful connection.
In honesty.
In effort.
In the ability to stay—and also in the grace to let go.

I could write pages about the pain of that breakup. About the year it took me to come to terms with it. About the six months of quiet crying. This wasn’t melo drama; it was the loss of what I considered the first friendship on my return “home”.

But those tears were for me, not for her.

Not everyone is worth your tears. And when you shed them, let it be for your healing—not for their memory.

The most powerful realization for me has been this: I no longer have any accumulation of feeling for that person.

And why should I?

Why should someone occupy space in my life—or in my heart—that they do not deserve?

We are not on a quest to hand out our power like candy.

So this is the lesson in the becoming of friendships:

It hurts because we care. Because we are human.
But it is okay to leave some friends in the seasons of the past.
It is okay to ask, “What is the lesson here?”
And to move forward with purpose instead of bitterness.

I’ve learned recently how important it is to be intentional about who is in your circle—and who is not.

Your friendship is a privilege.
Your time is a gift.
Your heart is not a community project.

Don’t be ashamed of your worth.

Share it sparingly.

And leave the overage for that extra caramel sauce you want on your brownie.

Not every goodbye is a loss—some are promotions.

Perhaps the writing was on the wall: she didn’t like dogs, and my dogs have excellent judgment.

Clue of the Week:
If a friendship constantly leaves you drained, confused, or questioning your worth, that is not a season—it’s a signal.

About the Author:
Sarala writes her life in chapters—honest, imperfect, and human. A corporate attorney turned intentional living advocate, she believes in healing out loud, setting brave boundaries, and choosing people and spaces that choose you back. When she isn’t reflecting on lessons learned, she can be found with a strong cup of coffee, her two dogs at her feet, and a good book reminding her that growth is always a work in progress.