I wrote this story to try and process/cope <3 Let me know what you think.
I remember the day I met Jane. It was in a dimly lit basement during lunch at inpatient treatment. She was sitting there, radiating a joy that felt out of place—too happy, too excited for someone in a recovery program. But as she would quickly and unapologetically tell you, it was better than prison. When she plopped down next to me, I had no idea who I was meeting, but that person would go on to change my life for the better in ways I couldn’t have imagined.
That moment was seven years ago. Since then, Jane and I built a friendship that weathered every storm life threw at us—headaches, heartbreak, and those inevitable dark moments of recovery—but also shared in the most radiant joys. We stood by each other as we married the men of our dreams. We held each other’s newborns, crying tears of joy for these tiny, miraculous humans.I became her childs Godmother. We lived together, house-trained a puppy she absolutely had no business getting with a boyfriend that didnt last long, and spent countless nights binge-watching terrible TV while devouring all the sweets we could carry from the grocery store. We were adults now, and we could—so we did.
But then, about a year ago, something shifted. Life got hard for Jane, in ways she couldn’t seem to escape. Mental health struggles have a way of creeping in, twisting even the strongest of us into knots we can’t untangle alone. She became distant. Every conversation revolved around her pain, her struggles, and how to navigate the ever-growing minefield of her relationships. I realized I had stopped leaning on her for support and had become her caretaker instead. Our friendship was no longer balanced; it was no longer mutual. Jane didn’t celebrate my wins anymore—didn’t even seem to notice them. I was navigating life without the person who had been beside me through every step of my recovery.
And then Jane’s world started to crumble. For a long time, I felt it was my job to hold her together, to save her. I felt responsible for her happiness and her healing. But the more I tried to carry her weight, the more it dragged me down. I ached when she ached, and eventually, it began to take a toll on my life, my relationships, and my own recovery.
When do we step away from the people we love, especially those who were once the foundation of our journey? How do you walk away from someone who changed your life, someone who was part of your healing and growth, even when staying begins to harm you? It feels like abandoning them at their lowest, and that’s a guilt that recovery doesn’t teach us how to bear. But how do you stay when they’ve stopped reaching out, stopped trying, stopped meeting you halfway?
It’s grieving a loss—but not a death. It’s mourning the person they were, the bond you shared, and the hope that they’ll come back. It’s complicated, especially in recovery, where relationships become so intertwined that walking away can feel like cutting off a piece of yourself. But we must ask: do we stay in relationships that no longer serve us? And perhaps more importantly, does staying truly serve them?
In the end, I had to let go. Not because I didn’t love Jane, but because I did. I couldn’t carry her, and in trying, I was putting both of us at risk. I set boundaries—not walls, but boundaries—leaving space for her to come back when she was ready, while protecting my own recovery. And I grieved. I mourned the friendship we had, the shared dreams and moments we’d built, and the future I thought we’d always have.
Letting go doesn’t mean you stop loving someone. It means recognizing that love sometimes requires distance. It means trusting that the person you once walked alongside has the strength to find their way, even if it’s without you for a time. And it means remembering that your recovery, your growth, and your life are yours to protect—no matter how much it hurts to let go.