Years ago, my close group of college friends made an annual trip “down the shore” to stay at my friend Carolyn’s family beach house. It was always a fabulous time: cooking together, drinking wine, gossiping about people we’d randomly run into from our sorority. After long afternoons sunbathing and swapping beauty magazines, we’d stay up late, talking into the wee hours. Our core group of four had a good thing going — until we didn’t.
Life pulled us in different directions. Carolyn left New York City to start a family with her husband in rural Michigan. Denise eventually followed suit — except by way of Alexandria, Virginia, with a man none of us had gotten to know before she moved. That placed even more distance between us, and not just the physical kind. Lauren and I stayed in the city, and we still met regularly for drinks, dinners and museum dates. But the annual beach trip was dead in the water, and our group chat quietly disappeared like a forgotten app.
I thought I’d come to terms with that group’s natural demise — until one day, scrolling Facebook, I saw a group of old classmates, arms looped around each other, sipping cocktails on some European vacation.
Apparently, their group had stayed close. Mine hadn’t.
And it wasn’t just that one group. I started to think about all the friend groups I’ve lost over the years: the first-job crew that slowly unraveled as people found new roles and new work friends. The running group that faded as our paces and life stages changed. The dinner-club couples’ circle that dissolved after a few cross-country moves. I realized I’d become quietly envious of those friend groups who had managed to hold on — despite the chaos, the relocations, the curveballs.
Michelle Cantrell, a licensed professional clinical counselor based in Pasadena, California, suggested I might not have given myself time to grieve the loss of these friend groups. “It’s okay to actually make room for that grief,” she told me.