Sometimes I describe getting older as a superpower. For me, it is the ability to let go of things that aren’t working for you, without agonising over the permutations of it. Recently, it has involved handing my resignation in as a friendship organiser.
The friendship organiser is the person in any friendship dynamic – whether that’s just with one other person or in a group – who generally steers the ship of where you meet up and when. Other lesser aspects may include working out the easiest location and finding and booking a restaurant or pub to meet at. Most of us naturally slot into these roles because it’s something we like to do, or because it’s a natural extension of existing organisational skills so it doesn’t feel too onerous.
For instance, I love trying new restaurants and sharing that experience with friends, and I’m also particular about where I go. It doesn’t have to be expensive or fancy but it does have to have decent food – and so that combined with my love of researching means it isn’t a bother and is something I will keep doing for my friends.
However, I have resigned from being the driving force of the meet-up, and then following up if there is no response to my suggestion of dates. The difference between this and the general admin of a hangout is whether I start to feel like the other person’s PA or spouse: having to chase them up, work mainly around their calendar or work everything out for them when all they have to do is show up. While this doesn’t necessarily mean people are being inconsiderate on purpose – I’m sure I do this to other people too – it says a lot about the roles we assign ourselves based on our own worries and fears around friendship.
The root of this, for me, is lodged firmly in that first painful earthquake of change that rumbles through 20-something friendships. It didn’t happen straight after leaving university, because the majority of my friends stayed in the same city, and we were all feeling the overwhelm of adulting. As such, nights out still continued, as well as big birthday parties and holidaying abroad.
But towards the end of my 20s, as people started to get married and move to different places, there was tangible fear that we would grow apart and lose each other. I remember forcing groups of friends to hang out together – which worked when we were at university and were happy just to socialise with anyone, but didn’t as we got older and more selective about who we spent our time with. By the next decade, it was becoming apparent that even organising something with just one or two friends was a challenge, let alone a group.
In my thirties, my friendships underwent a second quake, largely driven by who had children, and who hadn’t. This time, I held on as tightly as possible. I felt that as someone who didn’t have kids, I would lose my friends if I didn’t organise things and the thought terrified me. The result was feeling exhausted, lonely and resentful – because I was trying to hold onto the past as if nothing had happened, rather than trying to evolve or make new friends. Some friendships drifted off, some unexpectedly revived a few years later and became stronger than ever, and some still hold the capacity for great love, but we both acknowledge that time and circumstance aren’t on our side.
In my forties, there is a sharp understanding of time being valuable, and understanding that the pain arises when we can’t allow ourselves or others to evolve. Both of those things combined mean that I have a better understanding of friendship.
When I was younger, I thought all you needed for a friendship was to just like each other’s company – now, I know it is a much closer approximation to a romantic relationship. For that, there needs to be reciprocity, the sense that you are valued as a person, and that there is equal input. If a friend isn’t giving that to you, it isn’t necessarily because it’s the end of a friendship, or they no longer want to be friends. It may be that circumstances like geography or children play a part, or perhaps you just have very different interests compared to when you first became friends.
The key difference, however, is knowing that you don’t carry the responsibility for fuelling a friendship, and that if it seems like hard work with a friend, it’s okay to take a step back and give it some time. I used to be so worried that if I didn’t drive things forward, it would mean never meeting up. And sometimes, you have to just lean into that abyss and see what happens. The friendships that are meant to last will eventually adapt, and the ones that don’t are perhaps unsustainable to maintain at that point in time.
Being empathetic to what others might be going through that makes it hard for them to engage is important, but remember to turn that empathy towards yourself. Choosing to step back doesn’t mean you’re selfish or that you’re giving up – and it’s important to say because women especially are made to feel as if it’s a personal failing if they aren’t giving 100 per cent of themselves at all times in a friendship. By working out your own boundaries, it just may mean that you are growing up – and that isn’t always a bad thing.
Source: inews
