Scripture: “A time is coming and in fact has come when you will be scattered, each to your own home.” – John 16:32
The friendship was solid.
Or at least I thought it was.
Looking back, it was only solid as long as I played by the rules. Their rules. As long as I allowed them to control the narrative of my life, to steer my choices, to shape what was “acceptable.”
But then my life shifted. I took a different path, made some personal decisions that didn’t fit inside their framework—and the commentary rolled in.
“You don’t need to date anyone.”
“You need to learn to be alone.”
I could go on. And to be fair, not all of my friends reacted like that. Just a few.
Really, just one. But one can be enough to rattle you—especially when you’ve spent a chunk of your life living in the court of public opinion. And that courtroom? It’s never been a sanctuary.
But I decided that this was my era. My life. And I could date if I wanted. Who I wanted.
And… it only took a few months. The friendship disappeared.
Fewer texts.
Unanswered messages.
No invites.
The lines were drawn. I had been quietly, but firmly, exiled.
And it wasn’t because I lashed out. I actually tried to make it right. I asked for reconciliation. I shared my regret over the distance that had formed. I even picked up the phone, knowing we’d be at an upcoming event together and I didn’t want it to be awkward.
“Hey,” I said. “This has been on my mind for a while now. There’s a real distance between us and I just wanted to ask—did I do something?”
They laughed.
Not the kind of laugh that lightens the air. The kind that cuts you in half.
They launched into how I had “no business dating,” and then—out of nowhere—came this:
“And you were supposed to meet me for breakfast and you canceled because someone was having surgery.”
I was floored. I couldn’t believe that was the grievance. That after everything, that – was still being held.
And honestly? Even as I write this, there’s nothing I would’ve or could’ve done differently. We simply weren’t meant to be “forever friends.”
Adult friendships are hard.
Mel Robbins describes it as “The Great Scattering.”
The Great Scattering explores how friendship often begins through shared time and space—like in childhood, when our best friends were the kids we sat next to in class, rode the bus with, or played with on the same street. We didn’t have to choose them—they were just there. But as we grow, life shifts. Our paths diverge. And suddenly, friendship requires more than proximity—it asks for intentionality, alignment, and shared energy. Jesus understood this. In John 16, he tells his disciples, “A time is coming and in fact has come when you will be scattered, each to your own home.”
Even he experienced the scattering. The ones closest to him—who swore they’d never leave—drifted, ran, or stood at a distance. Not because they didn’t love him, but because they didn’t know how to stay. Later, they reconciled, but even in their journey with Christ, they disappointed.
It’s always an ache before it’s a revelation. That’s what I’ve learned about the slow, quiet unraveling of friendships.
You don’t always see it coming. One day you’re texting every day, sharing dumb memes, riding shotgun in each other’s lives—and then, things shift. The texts slow. The updates stop. And you’re left staring at your phone wondering, Did I do something wrong?
I used to think it meant something was broken. That I was broken. That I had failed to be enough—fun enough, available enough, agreeable enough—to hold it all together.
But then I heard Mel Robbins say something that stopped me in my tracks:
“Growth naturally leads to loss. Not because you’re doing something wrong, but because you’re doing something right.”
That one line reframed everything.
When we grow—emotionally, spiritually, psychologically—we change. And that change doesn’t always fit neatly into the lives we used to live or the people we used to know. Sometimes, we’re stepping into healing and they’re still comfortable in chaos. Sometimes, we’re learning boundaries and they’re used to us being boundary-less. Sometimes, we’re simply no longer the same version of ourselves they were close to.
And it’s not personal.
But it still hurts.
Maybe you’ve felt that scattering in your own life. Maybe you’re in it right now.
You’re growing, showing up differently, asking better questions, saying no to things you used to tolerate—and it’s thinning the crowd around you.
Here’s the hard truth: some friendships are meant for a season, not a lifetime. And their ending isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just… quiet. A slow fade. A gentle releasing.
But hear me—just because it ended doesn’t mean it failed.
It meant something. It mattered. But maybe its purpose was complete.
And now, so are you.
Of course, not every friendship that texts less or talks less is over.
Sometimes that silence is just the comfort of something deep and grounded—one of those “we can go months and pick right back up” kind of friendships.
We’ll talk more about those friendships later this week.
But for now, if you’re grieving the quiet exit of a friendship, know this:
It’s okay.
It doesn’t mean you’re failing.
It might mean you’re finally becoming.
Grace and Peace,
Andrea