They Ghosted and I Grieved: A Guide To Surviving A Friendship Breakup

In 8th grade, I had three friends: Gina, Sandy, and Andrea. Gina was the self-declared queen bee of our girl gang. One day, she decided Sandy wasn’t cutting it and needed to be replaced by someone cooler. And just like that, the rest of us fell in line. We spent the week giving Sandy the cold shoulder, rolling our eyes, and being cruel pre-teen bitches until she got the message and stopped coming around us.

The truth? I liked Sandy. But I was 12, spineless, and terrified of being ejected from the group. Standing up to Gina felt like social suicide, and I wasn't about to spend lunch hiding in the bathroom alone with soggy cafeteria pizza and no one to share Lip Smackers with.

So I stayed silent. And then, a few weeks later—surprise!—I got the boot. Gina turned on me just like she’d turned on Sandy. Suddenly, I was getting the cold shoulder and the whispered “Oh my god, she’s coming” treatment. I probably cried the same hot tears as Sandy, because man, that shit hurt.

Fast-forward a few decades. I grew up. Middle school scars faded (mostly), and I became an adult who enjoyed making new friends. I thought I was good at it, even. But then a stinky thing happened, as it often does when you think you have things figured out. Life - that sneaky little bitch -reminded me that that the more you learn, the less you actually know. 

Around Halloween several years ago, two friends ghosted me. No explanation, no big blowout, just poof. I joked that I’d been  “Casperated” - as in when a friend goes full-blown ghost, like Casper…get it?…and leaves you feeling haunted and empty.

The way they dropped me can best be described as Middle School Mean, and it hurt just as much, if not more, than being expelled from that stupid middle school clique. 

Eventually, though, I found my people. A group of amazing women—funny, smart, kind, and mature enough to know that adult friendships shouldn’t feel shitty. Some of them have known each other for decades, and yet they welcomed me like I was always meant to be there. No proving myself. No mean-girl hazing. Just good humans who like to laugh until we’re almost peeing ourselves.

And the Casperators? I got over them. One day, I genuinely shrugged and thought, Who cares? Their loss. And I wasn’t even lying to myself.

Here’s the thing: I honestly believe friend breakups can be more painful than romantic ones. When a romantic relationship ends, we have a cultural script to follow. We call our besties, cry while watching a favorite movie, dissect every text message our ex sent, and go through a socially sanctioned period of emotional rehab that includes carbs, wine, and whining.

But when a friendship ends? Crickets. There's no blueprint. Perhaps you confide in a couple of close friends about what happened, but if you all run in the same circles, oversharing can lead to awkward silences, side eyes, and the kind of support that doesn’t feel like support at all. You’re left mourning in private, wondering why no one brings over snacks when that kind of heartbreak happens.

Lately, the trendy advice is to follow the Let Them Theory—as in, Let them go. Let them do what they want. Let them walk away, and you stay unbothered and fabulous. Sounds empowering, right? And sure, in theory, it is. But in practice, it can also be nothing more than a convenient excuse for people to avoid accountability.

I stuck a toe in the water, explored the Let Them Theory, and decided it wasn’t my vibe. What worked for me wasn’t the latest book craze or TikTok philosophy. It was a six-word phrase a wise friend, who always has the right words, shared with me:

I forgive you. I forgive me.

That’s it. Just that. No 12-step program. No friend exorcism. Just quiet, radical compassion—for both sides.

I forgive you. I forgive me—for drifting apart, for saying the wrong thing, for saying nothing at all, for being selfish, or too sensitive, or tired, or human. For growing in different directions. For not knowing how to fix what cracked.

I forgive you. I forgive me.

Six words. Surprisingly powerful. Surprisingly healing, and better than Let Them.

Although I still fully support wine, whining, and snack eating as part of the healing process.