The hurt was all the sharper because I had no idea why Laura* did it. I had long regarded her as one of my best friends, our bond built on a shared love of the Kardashians and Victorian literature.
We were extremely close, or so I thought – I was godmother to her two children, one of only three guests at her wedding – and yet, bumping into her at a mutual friend’s art exhibition several months ago, she dismissed me as nothing more than an old distant acquaintance.
Her tone was polite but formal, with no indication we had once known each other’s lives and relationships inside out.
The truth is I hadn’t seen Laura for several years. The harsh reality is that she cut me off, not because we had fallen out or I had done something terrible but because I got divorced.
Originally a part of my ex-husband’s gang from university, instead of staying in amicable contact with us both, Laura chose sides – and she did not choose mine.
I hadn’t expected this devastating consequence of divorce, and it wasn’t just Laura. In fact, when it came to the division of friends after our split, I lost heavily.
Many of the people I thought I would always have in my life simply did not want to see me or speak to me ever again.
Kate Wills says that when it came to the division of friends after her divorce, she lost heavily. Many of the people she thought she would always have in her life simply did not want to see or speak to her ever again after the break-up of her marriage
Ironically, the break-up itself was far easier and less emotional than the friendship fallout. Alex* and I carved up our life of 12 years together in a careful, remarkably straightforward way, separating in 2018.
He got the vintage record player; I got the expensive copper saucepans. The books and the pot plants we divided 50/50.
We didn’t have children, and I was grateful for that: it felt like we’d been spared the most painful aspect of going through a divorce.
Except there was a painful aspect. The unexpected loss of losing so many close friends and how hard that was to process and come to terms with.
I met Alex when I was just 20 and was immediately subsumed into his tight-knit and wonderful friendship group. They were funny, smart, cool – exactly the type of people I had hoped to meet when I went to university, but for whatever reason never really did.
As in many heterosexual couples, I was more often than not the ‘social secretary’ arranging days and nights out, inviting friends over to the house.
I became much closer to many of Alex’s mates than he was, so close in fact that he would often joke ‘You stole my mates!’ or ‘They clearly prefer you to me’.
Alex and I had only recently wed when I started realising something wasn’t right within our relationship. We had always been very different, yet independent people, but by now he was living in Liverpool for his work as an academic, I was based between London and Los Angeles as a journalist.
Although we both tried hard to compromise, it became clear we didn’t share the same dreams for the future.
As we grew further and further apart (both geographically and emotionally), amazingly and reassuringly, our friendship group rallied round and offered advice. I had hoped because there hadn’t been any bad feeling or adultery our gang wouldn’t feel like they had to pick a side.
Once we actually parted after a year of marriage, I was shocked, hurt and betrayed at how many of them simply cut me out of their lives. From a close-knit group of around 20, today I am only in contact with one.
Journalist Kate felt totally bereft and baffled at the loss of her friends. She was already very lonely and didn’t know anyone else who was going through a divorce in their early 30s (posed by models)
These were not trivial friendships. They were people I spent my entire 20s with. We celebrated first jobs and first homes, went on holiday together, and spent countless joyful hours in each other’s company.
Memories that I will treasure for the rest of my days. I’d been to numerous weddings with them (and a couple of funerals). We cried together: I’d been through the births of children with them, and the death of parents.
Now, with brutal haste, they were treating me like a stranger. I felt totally bereft and baffled at the loss. Frankly, I was already very lonely. I didn’t know anyone else who was going through a divorce in their early 30s.
After so long as part of a couple, I suddenly felt very cut off and isolated. I was working from home, living alone and felt like most of my friends had deserted me.
Gradually, over time, I managed to cultivate a different life to the one I had presumed – one with new hobbies and interests and even new friends. But still it felt hard to come to terms with the loss of my old social circle.
Of course, I was under no illusions that they would all stay in contact. The friend Alex had known since primary school, for example, was never going to stay in touch. I had also grown incredibly close to Alex’s family, but I knew that I couldn’t expect them to want to remain in my life.
But the others? In my eyes I’d been totally shunned, excommunicated, ostracised. It was me who instigated the split, so Alex blamed me for being the one to call it quits.
I’d spent over a decade believing I was close friends with these people, but I was soon left in no doubt that I’d never been part of the group at all. I was merely an outsider, a plus one.
Losing Laura was the one that hit the hardest. We had – I thought – a relationship in our own right, one that was separate from my ex and which was built on firm foundations.
Although in the first few months post-split Laura seemed supportive, it didn’t take long before she stopped replying to my messages. I could see that she had read them and at first presumed she must be busy or away.
But as the weeks rolled past, and my messages went unanswered and ignored, the painful realisation dawned that she didn’t want to see me any more.
I carried on sending my godchildren birthday presents, but I never heard anything back, so eventually I stopped.
It makes me feel very sad that I no longer have a relationship with those lovely kids who I was once so close to. They were so young the last time I saw them that they wouldn’t recognise me now.
And, of course, life was moving on for me too. By this time, I’d met someone new, and we’d had a baby. As a new mum, I often wondered how Laura was, or what she was doing, remembering the hours we spent together when she was on maternity leave. By the time it was my turn, she had deserted me.
I heard from Steve* a couple of years ago, the one mutual friend that I am still in touch with, that Laura had been having relationship problems, but they had decided to stay together. I wondered if I was a painful reminder to her of what can happen if you choose to make the break.
Which brings us back to me bumping into her at Steve’s art show – where she acted like we barely knew each other. I have racked my brains for possible reasons. Perhaps my ex found it too uncomfortable and asked her not to be in touch with me.
Or maybe I overestimated the depth of our bond. I find that idea seriously unsettling. If I can’t rely on my instincts around friendship, do any of my existing friends even like me? Or will they too abandon me?
I have thought about contacting her again to ask why she dropped me, but it all feels very teenage.
She has made her position clear, and I also feel too proud to beg her to be my friend.
What I find equally galling is that, on the rare occasions when I did see any of those friends in the year after my split with Alex, I made absolutely sure not to talk about my ex or treat them like my unpaid therapist. Now, I wonder, did he?
I understand how hard it is to keep friendships going once they’re ripped out of the context they began in.
Our lives have changed so much since when we were all one big happy group. The threads of what we had in common got thinner and thinner, until they just snapped altogether. But it makes me unutterably sad.
Losing so many of the friends I shared with my ex made me extra careful to cherish the ones I had left – my own smaller group of pals from school and university.
Losing so many of the friends she shared with her ex has made Kate extra careful to cherish the ones she has left – her own smaller group of pals from school and university
I’ve also worked hard to make new friends, especially among fellow mums at the school gates, though I’m aware those friendships don’t always last past the primary years.
Interestingly, one of my uni mates is still in touch with Alex (they work in a similar field). I don’t feel at all resentful of this, although I do have to stop myself from asking what he’s doing in his life. My ex and I have largely lost touch too (which I expected), although we still email each other once a year on our birthdays.
Sometimes it feels like all the witnesses to my 20s and early 30s have disappeared. I find myself asking ‘Did that really happen?’ and there’s no one to corroborate it. All the music festivals, the all-night parties, the Sunday lunches.
It was a very special stage in my life and I’m grateful that I got to share those experiences with them. Occasionally something will trigger a memory – a song on the radio or the waft of a certain perfume – and I’ll feel like I’m grieving those friends like they’re an old lover.
I wonder if they think about me in the same way, or if I ever cross their minds at all now. I often recall the saying ‘You have friends for a season, a reason or a lifetime’. These friendships may have only lasted the length of my marriage, but I treasure them all the same.
Of course, it still hurts when I see photos of them all hanging out together without me. I was recently scrolling through social media and saw pictures of a big party which they were all at. It felt jarring to see their faces – more aged than I remembered of course, but otherwise just the same. Arms slung around each other, big smiles, that easy intimacy of a shared history.
Kate says she is not the only person to shed the friends they once cherished in a former time of their life. Friends have told her that becoming a mother, moving cities or even stopping drinking have separated them from people they presumed would always be there for them
Alex was there, and although I scanned the pictures of signs of a new partner, I don’t know if he’s married again or has children as he seems to not want to tell me.
I know I’m not the only person to shed the friends they once cherished in a former time of their life. Friends have told me that becoming a mother, moving cities or even stopping drinking have all separated them from people they presumed would always be there for them.
I recently sat down to plan my 40th birthday and was shocked to find that I didn’t really know who to invite.
When I turned 30, I rented a massive country house in Norfolk and filled it with 25 of my closest friends for a weekend of debauchery. The majority were from Alex’s friendship group.
I am only in touch with a handful of the guests now. So, instead of a big party, I went out to dinner with my three friends from school. It was a very different experience, we were all home by 11pm, but I’m in a completely different place in my life.
Divorce is a total rebirth, and losing friends is probably a natural part of that. And yet it’s also rarely talked about. Yes, it’s painful to lose the love of your life – but they’re not the only person you thought you’d be with for ever.
NAVIGATING FRIENDSHIPS AFTER YOU SPLIT
Psychologist Dr Irene Levine, from thefriendshipblog.com, has three key strategies
1. Appreciate they may feel uncomfortable
A divorce can be very confronting for people. It may highlight worries about their own relationship, and they may also feel like they have to pick a side.
Avoid badmouthing your ex or asking questions about him as that may make it worse, and give everyone plenty of time and space to adjust to the new dynamic.
2. Seek out new friends
Divorce can often happen at a time of life when you might be making other changes or seeking different kinds of friends anyway. Take comfort in the fact that you’ve made these close bonds in the past and you can do it again.
3. Don’t expect too much
Divorce can leave a gaping hole in your life, which you might expect friends to fill, but they have their own commitments (including to your ex). Build your own community with new hobbies, volunteering or a part-time job.
