The Pivot I Didn’t See Coming

Friendships still surprise me. Even to this day; even at this age.

There are the ones that disappear without an ending.

The ones that somehow survive every decade of your life.

The ones that arrive quietly and unexpectedly, right when you didn’t know you needed them.

And the ones that burn bright, fast, and intensely… until one day they don’t.

I would be lying to myself (and to you, the reader) if I said I haven’t thought about my friendships a lot lately. It’s consumed me, actually.

Almost 10 years ago, at my going-away party in Vancouver, a friend made a short speech to a room full of women I had come to know as my rocks. I loved them all. Each of them had been part of my life over the span of 26 years, both professionally and personally. She said, “Most of the ladies here tonight are here because you connected us somehow.”

I remember feeling flattered, humbled, and honestly a little stunned. It had never occurred to me that this was something I did intentionally. It just felt like being a friend, which to me, is seeing similarities in people, and bringing the right ones together. It came naturally, so I never labeled it as anything meaningful or special, even though it clearly was.

But many of those friendships changed after I moved north.

At first, the effort was intense. There were frequent calls, long catch-ups, and a real sense of hanging on. I was missing my entire network, my people, my familiarity, and I needed that support more than I realized at the time. I was also pregnant with my first child, so there was a greater need to be close to the familiar life I left behind. Over time, though, the intensity faded. In some cases, it was mutual. Life filled up with successful but demanding careers, kids, and the exhaustion that comes with. In others, I tried harder to keep things going, but distance made it more complicated. There was no blow-up, no clear ending. Just… less.

Some friendships, though, stand the test of time. The rooted ones. The deep, long-term relationships that don’t require constant maintenance. The ones where months can pass without contact, but when you reconnect, it feels like no time was lost. No guilt. No explanations. No keeping score. Those are rare, and I know how lucky I am to have them. Those are the ones I’ll always invest in.

Then there were the friendships I formed here. New city. New people. Shared stages of life. Those connections were intense in their own way. Big groups. Frequent get-togethers. Girls trips. A feeling of belonging that mattered deeply at the time. They were wonderful, meaningful, and necessary, but for a season.

What caught me off guard was how quietly some of those friendships ended.

Not with conflict. Not with confrontation. But with a gradual absence. Plans still being made. Gatherings still happening. Just not with me included anymore. And that’s a different kind of grief. When something fades entirely, you can chalk it up to timing. When it continues without you, it’s almost impossible not to take it personally.

How could you not?

That realization sent me into a mental spiral for a while. Did I say something? Miss something? Change too much? Not enough? I replayed conversations, scanned moments, tried to find the explanation that would make it all make sense. Maybe I was too intense. I’ve heard that before. Fierce loyalty has always been part of who I am, and not everyone knows what to do with that.

Eventually, I had to give myself a quiet pep talk. Friendships are seasonal. Most of them are. And that doesn’t mean you failed.

My husband, ever practical, said it plainly: “You really thought a group of eight women could sustain that pace forever?” He wasn’t being dismissive. He was being realistic. And realism, it turns out, can be grounding. Thank you, dear for being your ever-honest self.

The truth is, being excluded hurts. And at the same time, not being included doesn’t automatically mean you did something wrong. Sometimes dynamics shift. Sometimes people grow in different directions. Sometimes the version of you that fit there no longer does, and that doesn’t make anyone the villain. It just makes it real.

What this pivot has taught me is that friendships don’t disappear because you weren’t enough. They change because life does. Let that sit and ruminate for just a minute.

And while some connections fade, others surprise you. The mothers you meet through your children’s sports teams, and the acquaintance who suddenly becomes a coffee date because you ran into each other at Canadian Tire and she said, “Do you have time for a coffee right now?” The friendships that arrive quietly, without expectation, but feel exactly right for the season you’re in, and the season they’re in.

And then there are the lifelong ones. The constants. The ones who know your past, support your present, and don’t flinch at your future. Those are the friendships I’m choosing to put my energy into now.

This pivot with friendships wasn’t about rebuilding what was lost. It was about shifting my perception, with a side of realism. Letting go of the idea that every meaningful relationship has to last forever. Accepting that some people walk with you for a stretch of the road, not the entire journey.

I still value friendships deeply. I always will, and when I look back on my life, I know I showed up, cared, and invested in them. And I’m okay knowing that.

Sometimes the pivot isn’t about fixing what ended. It’s about recognizing what it gave you, and making room for what comes next.