When Friendship Turns Toxic

This lesson broke me open, in ways I’m still not fully over. I’m not sure I’ll ever be fully over how I learned this lesson, as hard as I try. I’ve always been loyal — often times, to a fault. I believe in people’s best intentions. I want to see the good. And when people hurt me, I tend to give grace on repeat — until I’m emptied out and resentful.

It stems from childhood trauma, I know that now. Fear of abandonment. And emotional and physical abuse. I’ve had to unlearn mistaking loyalty for love, and endurance for strength. It’s a painful habit, one I’ve repeated across relationships, friendships, even work dynamics. But the situation that finally taught me what I needed to learn came wrapped in friendship — the kind that feels like sisterhood, until it definitely… doesn’t.

How It Started

Sometimes we meet people we might not have chosen under different circumstances — but life overlaps: shared routines, similar ages, neighboring houses, jobs that make you allies. That’s how it was for me. What began as casual friendship grew into a close bond that lasted nearly a decade.

I was loyal to a fault. I showed up, listened, supported, defended. It wasn’t balanced — maybe 70/30 — but I accepted that. I told myself that was what love and friendship were: showing up, even when it wasn’t returned in kind.

Then she met someone. Within weeks, he’d moved in. I wanted to be supportive, but I also wanted to be protective — there were red flags I couldn’t ignore. He had a restraining order from an ex, hadn’t seen his children in months, and joked about violence in ways that chilled me. When I voiced my concern gently, it backfired. She told him everything I said, and I watched her slowly disappear into his orbit.

That was the first heartbreak — not the romantic kind, but the kind where someone you love slips away, one justification at a time.

The Circle Expands

Around the same time, I met another friend — bright, funny, a neighbor I adored. She stepped into the void my first friend left. Before long, she became the confidante I didn’t know I was missing. I opened my home, my time, my heart. She became my “replacement best friend.”

Soon, another woman joined us — witty, magnetic, the kind of person who made every gathering feel fun. The three of us became inseparable. Dinner parties, dog park wine nights, laughter echoing down the block. For a while, it felt like safety. Connection. Belonging.

I invited all three of them to stand beside me at my wedding. I meant it.

When It Fell Apart

A month before the wedding, the stress was crushing me. I wasn’t at my best — exhausted, emotional, spread thin. I made mistakes, as brides sometimes do. What I didn’t realize was that instead of talking to me, some of the women I trusted most were talking about me behind back. A separate text string, get togethers I wasn’t invited to. Inside jokes.

After the wedding, the fallout came fast. A group of them gathered — and I later learned that night turned into my full-on character assassination. The confirmation came from a mutual friend who had the courage to tell me.

The humiliation of that moment — realizing I’d been dissected, judged, and erased by people I loved — was excruciating. I reached out, hoping to repair things, and received text-message “breakups” and long, clinical emails diagnosing me, labeling my actions in ways that felt unfair and misunderstood.

Therapy terms and vulnerable details shared were thrown at me, my intentions were twisted. My pain used as evidence. Any time I tried to clarify or discuss, I was called controlling, manipulative, even narcissistic. I felt stripped bare — exposed, misunderstood, and discarded. The worst part? My best friend of 10 years joined these women, and jumped on the bandwagon.

I was shattered. Not just by the loss, but by how it unfolded. I felt violated. These weren’t casual acquaintances — they were women I’d cried with, celebrated with, shared my most vulnerable stories with. Leaned on, and who leaned on me. I cared about what they thought. I cared about their feelings. I cared about the energy being put out into the world as a result of this. And they treated me like I was completely discarded.

The Damage

I won’t lie. I fell apart. I couldn’t get through a day without sobbing for weeks. For months, I barely slept. I was depressed, gained weight. I felt unsafe in my own neighborhood. The agony of betrayal felt palpable, being physically nearby. An awful, awful time.

The betrayal I felt ran deeper than gossip — it was psychological. I felt uncomfortable even being in my own skin. I questioned everything about myself, hated looking in the mirror. Would sit on my couch, feeling unable to think, talk, feel. I felt myself break down. I’ll say the quiet part out loud: I didn’t want to live. I thought about taking my life. The pain was that consuming. I’m grateful I didn’t, but it was a thought that came into my mind many times.

I’m still affected by this, but time helps create distance, which can make the day-to-day feel more possible.

The Reckoning

Therapy helped me find words for what happened. I sent my therapist everything I received, and laid out everything that happened - as objectively as I could. I craved honest assessment of my own personality, my wrongs, and whether what they said was true. My therapist, who knew me for 10+ years, told me that these women were pathologically cruel. What hurt actually, is she told that they never were truly my friends. It made me question my instincts, which turned out to be a good thing.

What I learned, is that I have a tendency to trust people who don’t deserve it. That this wasn’t just rejection — it was relational trauma. It’s from when people you trust mirror the dynamics of earlier wounds — abandonment, judgment, dismissal. It’s essentially history repeating itself, whether you are aware or not.

You are attracted to the people in your life for a reason. Just as they are, to you. It’s being able to be aware of this, and react in a healthy way — that makes all the difference.

Letting Go

I started looking inward, not to blame myself for being hurt, but to understand why I kept staying loyal to people who hadn’t earned it. That was the beginning of my healing. I’m learning how to trust appropriately now, and how to spot tendencies in people that are really harmful for me.

I can’t control what they believed or how they behaved. I can’t change their version of the story, or their assessment of who I am. But I can choose how I continue to respond. And I can reject what was said and sent my way, and believe what I feel is my truth. And I can continue to guide my own evolution, and growth toward true healing, introspection and insight.

All You Can Control is Your Response

You can’t control how others treat you, twist your words, or rewrite your story. But you can control how you reclaim it. Healing isn’t about proving anyone wrong — it’s about finally standing right with yourself. I don’t hate them. I don’t wish them harm. I genuinely hope they’ve found peace. But I’ve found something, too — something stronger. While I still find myself wanting to be loved by them, I realize even if I was — I could never trust them again. I learned that boundaries aren’t walls — they’re wisdom. You can love people deeply and still decide not to let them hurt you again. You can forgive without forgetting what their actions revealed. You can outgrow relationships without becoming bitter.

What It Taught Me

I learned who my real friends were. The ones that stood by me, reminded me who I was and of my value. I learned not everyone who shares your laughter deserves access to your inner feelings, thoughts, and reflections. And that sometimes the most compassionate thing you can do for yourself is to stop explaining your heart to people committed to misunderstanding it. Closure won’t come from the apology that could arrive — it comes actually from the acceptance that you probably never will. And that you’re okay.

Moving Forward

I found clarity. I found boundaries. I found self-respect. What they meant for rejection became my redirection. This time, I’m not rebuilding to prove my worth. I’m rebuilding because I finally believe in it.

And I also pick my friends more carefully…