worldsaway

Friends make you, and they break you. I don’t think that will ever not be true. Friends of decades or friends of just a few days. For a season or a lifetime. The question is—will you fight for them?

For me, I’ve had a lot of friends. Not in a bragging way, but in a grateful one. Friends who were steady through childhood. Friends who carried me through young adulthood. And now… adulthood friends—the hardest kind.

I have a few close ones. Some I’ve known deeply for years. Some I’ve known for years but am only just now knowing deeply. Friends I’ve worked with. Friends I’ve lived with.

But here’s the thing—nothing tests a friendship like struggle. Real, raw, unfiltered struggle.

I was in a dark season once. Not just a little sad—deeply, heavily depressed. The kind where getting out of bed felt impossible. It was bad. Really bad.

And my friend knew. She knew all of it. Every layer. She knew me as well as—maybe even better than—I knew myself.

So when she told me to “just do better,” something in me shifted.

Do better.

Be better.

Translation: she doesn’t want to see this version of you.

So I listened.

I did what I always do. I adjusted. I performed. I became the version of myself that people can handle. The same version I bring to work—the one that is “completely fine,” the one that functions like nothing is wrong, like the darkness isn’t hovering just above me, waiting.

Work is almost a relief. There’s structure. There’s routine. There’s a script to follow.

Home is supposed to be different.

Home is supposed to be where the mask comes off. Where I can feel whatever is there—whether that’s emotions or nothing at all. Where I don’t have to perform.

But now…Now I have to do better.

So I keep the mask on. Tighter than before.

No slipping.

No cracking.

No real emotion.

Not even with my best friend.

Because she asked me to do better.

And I will. I always will. I will become whatever is asked of me, whatever makes things easier for everyone else.

It’s my greatest weakness.

Because if I can’t fall apart there—if I can’t be honest there—then where am I supposed to go?

Where am I allowed to be broken?

Where am I safe?

I don’t know.

I’m still trying to figure that out.

But I do know this—this isn’t working.

And there’s a part of me that’s scared, really scared, that if I keep going like this…

it might destroy me.