I’d like to introduce Sarah—once a good friend of mine.

You’d probably like her if you met her. Wide-eyed and genuine. A little shy at first, but she’d warm up quicker than you’d expect.

We hit it off the moment we discovered we were the same age and equally passionate about reading. We’d spend hours over coffee or ice cream talking about the books we’d read. I was amazed that there wasn’t a single title on my shelf she hadn’t already read.

I met her in my early twenties, fresh out of university and feeling the weight of uncertainty about my future. She, on the other hand, seemed to have clearer plans. She casually mentioned her intention to marry her longtime boyfriend, and not long after, I received an invitation to their wedding. I couldn’t attend due to a family commitment, but she was cool about it—never one to care much about formalities. I appreciated that about her: her ability to focus on what really matters.

Soon after, I took a job outside the city, while she started a new chapter as a wife and, eventually, a mother. By the time I returned, she was still in school and caring for her growing family. We caught up a few times, setting aside her domestic responsibilities and my career worries. I was grateful to have someone who listened, who asked how I was doing, who seemed to genuinely care. She often initiated our meetups, checking in and making time to see me. It felt mutual, for a while.

But one day, as we were leaving a café, I looked at her walking ahead of me and suddenly felt the tremendous urge to go home. I was surprised by my own disinterest in continuing the afternoon. I had run out of things to say—and to hear. It hit me: our friendship had reached a point where we no longer had anything in common. She was excitedly sharing her thoughts on family planning, and I found myself unable to relate. I’d never been in a serious relationship, and her world was moving in a direction that felt increasingly foreign.

Another time, she asked me—rather directly—why I wasn’t dating and whether I’d ever been in a relationship. I understood her curiosity; she was asking as a friend, trying to sound casual. But her tone felt slightly intrusive, even condescending. At the time, I was already struggling with the challenges of meeting the right person on top of the general complexities of adult life. Having met her husband in school, she had never experienced adulthood without a partner. She was, in many ways, the last person I wanted to discuss the emotional toll of modern dating with. Our experiences were simply too different.

Later, she began to voice her hopes that I’d “find someone soon,” that I’d start a family—so we could have more in common. I tried to be gracious, but her insistence made me uncomfortable, especially as I was becoming more frustrated with the topic of dating itself.

When I heard her family was growing again, I knew, in my heart, that our friendship had quietly ended. There was no longer a reason to reach out for coffee. Her life was now centered around parenting, while I was still navigating personal and professional uncertainties. She no longer seemed interested in my dreams or future plans—only in when I’d settle down and mirror her life. And I no longer wanted that kind of attention or expectation.

Reflecting on my faded friendship with Sarah, I’ve come to realize something: some friendships are meant for certain seasons of life. Even the closest ones don’t always grow with you. Sometimes, you—or they—outgrow the connection. And that’s okay.

Though we’ve drifted apart, I still think of our shared time fondly. Back then, she made me feel seen, understood, and valued. She reminded me that I was someone worth spending time with. And maybe, someday, when life brings us to a more familiar place again, we might reconnect.

But if we don’t, that’s okay too. What we had was real—and enough.