The Tide Shift: When Friendships Become Illusions and It’s Time to Let Go
This piece explores how to see when a friendship has run its course, why holding on for comfort can hold us back, and how letting go makes room for growth and new chapters.
We’re always evolving, always changing. More often than not, the people we draw close, and the relationships we nurture, reflect a version of ourselves tied to a particular season of life.
Some relationships happen by consequence of environment, not intention. When you change, when you wake up to your surroundings, the people orbiting your life begin to feel different. Sometimes that’s a conscious choice. Sometimes, it’s just the environment shifting, like tidal waves turning with the seasons.
I’ve learned that keeping someone around out of vanity or convenience is neither intentional nor sustainable. Especially when your direction changes and their presence no longer fits the shape of your life.
On the day of my confirmation at Temple Church, I stood alone. I had invited people, sent messages, tried to bring them in, but most didn’t even acknowledge it. And yet, it didn’t bother me. Many family members did show up, more than I expected. They watched the ceremony on YouTube. It felt comforting, as if I was being welcomed into something larger than myself. Embraced, finally, for who I truly am.
As I walked the aisle from my seat near the altar on the Inner Court side toward the West Door, I looked up at Willement's roundel in the nave, showing Christ surrounded by his angels. The choir stood alongside, the church surrounding me like a witness. Stepping forward became a moment of recognition, for the truth I carry, regardless of how others perceive it.
For the first time in my life, I felt fully seen. And I understood then: it isn’t about religion. It’s about how you connect with God, both physically and spiritually. Religion is only the passport; everyone is free to choose the denomination that aligns with that purpose.
For me, the Temple spoke more than words could. And over many days, through reflection and searching, I felt compelled to act on it. Hence the confirmation. It was intentional, deliberate, not a product of environment, but of alignment. And because of that, it carried purpose.
After the ceremony, as I said goodbye to the Reverend who had supported my journey, he told me:
“You are now part of the family.”
I made my way out through the Inner Courts, toward Temple Chambers where I used to work. Rain poured down. Two tourists ducked under the arch where I stood, trying to shelter. They looked lost. I offered help, first in English, then in Spanish. They realised St Paul’s Cathedral was only a few steps from where we stood and quickly readjusted their route.
I stayed. No umbrella. My shoes were new, stiff against my skin, and already aching. Two blisters burned, one on each heel. They clashed with the silk yellow-and-green dress I wore. Striking, but impractical for the rain. Then, just as suddenly, the storm eased. A streak of yellow sunlight broke through, and I felt compelled to walk again…
The Tide Shifts
I walked toward Embankment, stopping at King’s Reach Monument with its figure of Neptune, trident raised above the Thames. It marked a symbolic passage.
Neptune, lord of tides and illusions, reminded me that what looks stable on the surface can be turned by unseen currents below. Friendships, too, are like this, some drift quietly out to sea, others pull you under, and a few carry you forward when the tide is right.
As I reached Victoria Embankment Gardens, yellow, green, and red flowers brightened the way. Among the busts of historical figures, one stood out: William Tyndale, the first to translate the New Testament into English. He died a martyr in 1536.
His last words were:
“Lord, open the King of England’s eyes.”
Within a year, a Bible was placed in every parish church by royal decree.
I had never noticed this monument before. It felt serendipitous to discover it now.
It reassured me. I realised this wasn’t my journey alone, it was shared. And I too had opened my eyes.
I wasn’t ready to jump on the train just yet, so I continued walking, following the Thames until I reached Westminster.
The Houses of Parliament stood across the river, the clock chiming, a striking view of the city. One of my favourites, especially when seen from afar. From Temple.
Later, I’d realise it had been a rare kind of Sunday. Not just spiritual, but deeply personal. A quiet connection with myself. A third part of me, long dormant, had stirred.
Buckingham Palace Road, Victoria Station Stop R
I ran into them at a dingy bus stop. Women I’d once called friends, except one. The encounter was out of the blue, a product of chance, not intention.
Victoria isn’t a place people usually meet. It’s where people pass through. A stopover. Transitory. Who in London gets on the tube on a Sunday to have brunch in Victoria?
I had ended up there after walking for hours. Tired, blistered, but elated. The day had felt meaningful, light-filled, almost cinematic. Victoria was just the fallback plan. A place to finally eat.
They were awkward. I was detached. We exchanged small talk. They had eaten at Morena in Eccleston Yards, didn’t like it, but still recommended it. The irony stung.
One asked, bluntly:
“So you’re converted now?”
Converted to what?
Confirmation isn’t conversion. It’s a rite of reconnection. For me, it was quiet, meaningful, harmonious, not the spectacle they seemed to imagine.
This is what living intentionally feels like. Acquaintances and half-friends begin to fall away. Casual circles no longer make sense when you’re rooted in truth.
I excused myself, said I was going for tea at The Clermont. I stepped into the hotel, but the tea room felt wrong. Something about that encounter had pulled me too abruptly back to reality, like being shaken from a dream. I left and walked to Eccleston Yards.
Curious, I wanted to see what Morena looked like. Why recommend a place you dislike?
It was chaotic. Loud. Crowded. I sat briefly outside. Ordered nothing. Moved on.
Eventually, I landed at a salad bar, one of those private equity chains dressed up as wellness. Trendy. Overpriced. Pretending to be premium, but unmistakably low quality. Eleven pounds for a Caesar salad with questionable chicken.
It felt ordinary. Naked. Like holding a transparent Tesco bag.
I found a picnic table to eat. On one side, two girls were deep in conversation about diet plans. I asked if I could join. They waved yes.
Finally, I opened my phone. Weeks earlier, I’d created a family group to invite everyone to the confirmation. Reading their messages again, supportive, loving, reminded me of something simple:
There is nothing more beautiful than being seen for who you truly are.
Those who love you will not question your ways. Even if your ways take you a thousand miles from where you grew up. They don’t fade. They grow with you.
That is family.
Dissolution
Like the invites I sent to those friends, the same ones I bumped into at the bus stop—they were never replied to. That alone said enough.
But there’s a darker edge. One I’ve come to recognise in many social interactions—not just personal ones. A lot of people don’t truly listen. They collect information without retaining it. They listen to respond, not to understand. It’s a loop. Their words orbit back around themselves. Zero empathy.
They’ll run over your thoughts, then accuse you of not listening. Twist your self-expression into selfishness. Frame your attempts to explain how you feel as proof you don’t care about them. When in reality, they were never really listening.
This isn’t just bad communication, it’s a kind of emotional erasure. A subtle, pervasive gaslighting. And when you see it clearly, you stop wasting your voice.
What should be dialogue becomes monologue. Connection becomes performance. Corporate life trains people into this. So do many social groups. You don’t see it until it’s already been signed, sealed, and internalised.
Some people are narcissists in disguise:
“I’m pretending to hear you, but this is really about bending your will to mine.”
Seeing it clearly was freeing.
That chance encounter in Victoria, the awkward smiles, the unanswered invitations, the hollow brunch recommendation, tore away an illusion. If we’d truly been close, wouldn’t someone have suggested we celebrate? Hugged? Shared coffee? Asked how it went?
It’s funny how, as long as the press invites are rolling in and the champagne flows, the messages come easily. Once the lights dim, they vanish.
Still, I’m not innocent in this. It was a circle. It didn’t happen overnight.
I had turned down many of their invites too. Prioritised my son. Said I’d come and didn’t. Not out of neglect, but devotion. A mother’s sacrifice, one made from love. But slowly, that choice made life isolating, even when that’s not what I wanted.
Maybe they thought I was no longer part of the circle.
And maybe I wasn’t.
It made me rethink what friendship really is. Where I place my energy. And with whom I share the weight of my life.
Sometimes, life forces you to shed falsehoods so you can live your truth.
And in doing so, you don’t lose anything, you gain clarity.