How to cope when a friend moves on

And other top regrets of the dying

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been writing about happiness.

My Dad commented on one of my newsletters, suggesting I take a look at Bronnie Ware’s The Top Five Regrets of the Dying. “Maybe you could work backwards from the regrets?” he wrote.

Great idea, Dad.

So, I looked them up.

Number 5 is: I wish I let myself be happier. If you’ve read my last two newsletters, you’ll know that I’ve been poking at that one already.

But Number 4 hit a little harder: I wish I’d stayed in touch with my friends.

On the surface, I like to think that I do stay in touch. I message back. I meet for coffees. I DM memes that I’m too nervous to post publicly.

But even as I read that regret, I immediately thought of friendships that had quietly dissipated over the years. Ones I thought were solid. Ones I thought were “BFFs forever.”

Like the friend who got married a few years ago.

At least… he did according to the photos. Because I wasn’t there. I wasn’t invited.

This wasn’t just an acquaintance. This was someone I considered a close friend.

At the time, I told myself all the reasonable things: “Weddings are expensive.” “Guest lists are political.” “He probably had to cut a lot of people.”

But a louder, pettier voice in my head kept screaming: “He didn’t invite you.” “You would have invited him.” “He should’ve at least said something.”

I felt resentful. Embarrassed. Hurt.

So, I stopped reaching out. He didn’t text either. And that was that. No fight. No fallout. No press conference about our parting of ways.

Just a slow, quiet death of a 10+ year friendship.

That’s the thing about friend breakups – they rarely come with a clean ending. No confrontation. No Taylor Swift song. Just silence.

And for us queer people, that silence can feel especially loud. Our friends often are our chosen family.

But the more I sat with it, the more I realised: this wasn’t about a wedding.

It wasn’t about a missed opportunity to catch a bouquet or do the Nutbush.

It was about something deeper. That aching human need to be chosen. To be included. To feel like you matter.

And it was easier to stay mad than admit that. Because anger feels powerful. Vulnerability feels… weak.

But staying mad didn’t help. It didn’t bring clarity or closure. It just left a quiet ache in its place.

There were times I thought about reaching out. But I never did.

Because that moment taught me something — not just about him, but about the quiet expectations I’d been carrying.

I assumed we’d always be close. I assumed effort would be matched. But sometimes, we hold on to a version of a friendship that no longer exists. And the kindest thing we can do — for both people — is to take a step back and reflect.

And that reflection can sting. But it can also bring clarity.

In her book, The Let Them Theory, Mel Robbins suggests we should let people do what they’re going to do.

Let him not invite me. Let him not explain. But then — let me choose how I respond to that information. Let the truth reveal itself through action, not assumption.

And the truth was: I had been holding up more of the friendship than I realised.
I was the one reaching out. The one organising catch-ups. The one prioritising him more.

And while I don’t want to be the kind of friend who needs constant inclusion to feel secure… I also don’t want to be the only one doing the work.

So maybe it was okay to find peace and let this one go.

Friendships shift. People drift. Not all bonds are built to last forever.

To build on Bronnie Ware’s poignant list, maybe the goal isn’t to stay in touch with every friend we’ve ever had.

Maybe it’s about knowing which ones are worth fighting for – and which ones we can let go of, without needing it to mean something awful about us, or them.

Because one day, I will be on my deathbed. (Hopefully not soon – I have tickets to Lady Gaga in December.)

And when that day comes, I want to be able to say: I stayed in touch with some friends and let go of others with grace, not bitterness.

And hopefully, impressed some drunk aunts and uncles with the unbridled enthusiasm I bring to the Nutbush along the way.