For as long as I can remember, I have been the friend who cared. The friend who remembered birthdays, anniversaries, the date of someone’s driving test, the week of their interview, the month their parent passed away. I was the friend who sent check-in messages, who asked how you were really doing, who showed up with soft encouragement and gentle presence. I organised dinners and held space for the people I loved. I believed friendship was a verb. I believed that friendship was an active, living thing that required attention and tending.

And I tended. Even when I was tired. Even when I was grieving. Even when life was swallowing me whole.

But then it was my turn. When my birthday arrived, or my world quietly crumbled, all I got in return was silence.

No messages. No calls. No effort. Just… absence.

On the few occasions I tried to celebrate myself, on my birthday, I organised dinners only for people to pull out on the day. Or they simply didn’t reply. There were excuses, delays, last-minute apologies that didn’t sound like apologies at all. I would sit at the table I booked, wearing the outfit I had chosen with such care, and realise nobody had considered me with the same thoughtfulness I poured so freely into them.

I kept giving anyway.

I offered to babysit. I carved out hours to help plan someone’s wedding. I listened to relationship breakdowns and work crises. I rearranged my schedule, my emotional bandwidth, my life, to be available. I thought this was love. I thought this was friendship.

And then one day, I learned what it meant to be an afterthought.

I was meant to be someone’s maid of honour…until I wasn’t even invited to the wedding. Someone I once often reached out to, just to catch up and offer a patient, listening ear had a baby shower and I only found out that she already had the shower on social media. Another friend invited me to hers only as an afterthought…on the condition that I bought something from the registry I couldn’t afford. Not because she truly wanted me there, but because she wanted what I could give.

That was the moment something in me stilled.

It wasn’t dramatic. I didn’t cry. I just went quiet. Something in me understood, without denial or negotiation:

They were never my friends.
I was theirs.

I was useful. Convenient. The safe listener. The helper. The one who would always say yes. I was the person they came to when they needed something. Time, presence, love. But when I needed anything in return, I was asking for too much.

So, I stopped reaching out.

Not in anger, but in clarity. I gave myself three months. Three months of not initiating. Three months of silence to see if anyone would notice my absence.

No one ever reached out.

Not a check-in. Not a call. Not even a “Hey, you’ve been quiet. Are you okay?”

And in that quiet, I understood something I had avoided for years:
I had been holding onto friendships that only existed because I was the one holding onto them.

So, I let go.

I blocked the numbers. I unfollowed the accounts. I created distance. I did this, not as punishment, but as liberation. And the moment I did, I felt something I had not felt in a long time:

Lightness.

I began to return to myself. In the space where I once poured into others, I poured into my own life. I launched my platform. I quit a job that no longer fit. I started a new chapter. I began spending my birthday abroad. Not to run away from loneliness, but to celebrate that I no longer needed a room full of people to confirm my worth. I am in my final year of university now. My life is full of movement and becoming.

I am softer. And stronger. And freer.

Letting go of those friendships did not make me colder. It simply made me clearer. I no longer mistake self-sacrifice for love. I no longer confuse being needed with being valued. I no longer feel obligated to shrink myself into the role of caretaker just to feel connected.

I am learning that the right people will not need reminding to treat you with care. They will not forget you. They will not disappear when it matters. They will show up because they want to, not because you pull them there.

And I am learning to show up for myself first.

Releasing expectations is honestly so freeing.

Actively deciding to choose relationships that feel mutual, steady and safe.

I’ve learned that love is something that flows both ways.

I have not looked back since.

If you’ve ever felt like the friend who gave too much, I hope you find the courage to choose yourself too. You deserve the same effort you pour into everyone else.

Until the next one!

Bibi x

P.S. If you like this essay, you might also like to read about how I made another life-changing decision to shed another layer of the old me.