In recent years, something strange happened.
As my life expanded—more freedom, more opportunity, more adventures—my social circle shrank.
At first, it didn’t make sense.
Isn’t growth supposed to mean more? More connections, more group chats, more names in my phone?
For me, it’s been the opposite.
The number of people I regularly spend time with has shrunk. Not because of drama. Not because I ghosted anyone. But because I found myself no longer chasing or maintaining friendships as a form of social upkeep. I allowed relationships to end naturally without guilt.
Instead, I began to say yes to the people who met me where I was—not where I used to be. Connections where you don’t have to explain yourself, where silence isn’t awkward, and where showing up messy isn’t a risk.
Growth, for me, hasn’t been about collecting more. It’s been more about releasing. You don’t just add better habits—you lose old identities. You don’t just gain direction—you question the maps you used to trust. And sometimes, growing means saying goodbye to people who once felt like home.
We live in a world that’s obsessed with more—more friends, more DMs, more likes, more handshakes. Quantity is king. We’re taught that shrinking circles mean shrinking lives.
But real growth requires shedding what’s no longer aligned. Not everything—and not everyone—is meant to come with you.
Some friendships expire without anyone doing anything wrong. You outgrow each other. Your values shift. Your priorities don’t line up anymore. As life unfolds in chapters, not every character will be there from beginning to end. As your story evolves, so will the roles that others play within it.
There’s grief in letting go. It’s tempting to spare your own feelings by blaming the other person or pretending you never cared. But that’s not growth. That’s just hiding the pain.
And there’s real power in marking these endings—like holding a quiet funeral for the relationship. Not dramatic. Not angry. Just honest. A simple acknowledgment: We were right for each other once. We’re no longer aligned. And I’m so grateful for what we shared.
I have a friend who held a funeral for her marriage—with her ex-husband—at the same café where they had their first date. They honored what they shared. They grieved what they lost. They buried the trauma, so they wouldn’t resurrect it in future love.
These tiny funerals are critical. They free up emotional space—like finally closing an open browser tab that has been quietly draining your energy in the background.
But they’re not just for you. Marking an ending is also a way of honoring the relationship itself. Just like a real funeral, it says: This meant something. This mattered. When you do that, you’re not rejecting the past. You’re integrating it.
In the end, you don’t need more people.
You just need the ones who truly see you.
Depth over breadth. Always.
Because life isn’t about how many people recognize your face—
It’s about the rare few who can truly hold your gaze.
P.S. If reading this made something stir in you—a quiet knowing that you’ve outgrown some version of your life or your circle—know this: I’ve been quietly building something for you. A live, in-person experience designed to help you release what no longer fits and step into what’s next.
You’ll gather with like-hearted humans walking a similar path—people who can meet you where you are, not where you used to be.
It’s intimate. It’s powerful.
And it’s coming soon.
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