Most of my adult life, I’ve struggled with friendships. After my best friend Amy died by suicide in 2004, something inside me broke. The loss, the guilt, and the feeling that I could’ve stopped her have never left me. After that, I stopped letting people in, and my husband became my one person—our co-dependency growing quietly over the years.

When my son started at a small private school, I got pulled into the “mom world”—playdates, class events, coffee dates. I hated every minute of it. My anxiety was overwhelming. I’ll never forget standing in a kitchen with 24 other moms, forcing myself to perform a “party trick” of naming all their kids to avoid being the invisible one. It worked—they laughed and clapped. But none of it was real.

That day, I did meet J. She was different—no-nonsense, funny, an ex-addict, someone who felt real. When I was put on bed rest during my pregnancy, she helped with rides for my son and even sent her cleaning lady over. After my baby was born, she was there with gifts and kindness. I hadn’t had that level of intimacy since Amy.

But when postpartum depression hit hard, I was drowning—alone with a newborn and a four-year-old, a husband working 80+ hours a week, and no family nearby. I couldn’t reach out; I didn’t know how. Diane went on a glamorous trip to Europe, and when she called to share stories of Paris and private jets, I stood in my kitchen in dirty sweatpants, feeling more alone than ever.

When she kept calling and I kept not answering, it made me feel smothered and panicked. I didn’t understand why. Finally, I answered, told her everything—the depression, the suicidal thoughts, how her stories made me feel isolated. I was harsh. I could hear that edge in my voice—the one that says “back the f*ck off.” And she did. She told me she couldn’t be friends with me anymore because my pulling away had triggered her.

Years later, I formed other friendships—ones that felt safer. Women who are fiercely independent, who don’t “push in” on me. I realize now that’s the common thread among my closest friends. They don’t need me in a way that feels overwhelming, and I’ve valued that safety. But I’ve also wondered why I struggle so much with closeness. Why does intimacy feel like a threat?

In therapy, after years of asking why I can’t just “be normal” about friendships, my therapist recently asked me, “What do you see when you imagine being ‘pushed in on’?” Without thinking, I said, “The crack of light from the hallway the night I was raped.” And when she asked what I hear, I said, “The sound of my bedroom door opening that night.”

It hit me like a freight train. How had I not seen this? It was so obvious. And then came the shame spiral—Am I too broken to do this work? Should I stop helping other survivors if I couldn’t even see this in myself?

But here’s the thing: I’m not broken, and I won’t stop doing this work. Sometimes, the answers to our “whys” are so painful we protect ourselves from seeing them. Because once you see them, you have to feel them. You have to deal with them.

So, maybe I have chosen friends who won’t push in on me. Maybe I’ve spent my life creating safety in that way. Funny how we learn to protect ourselves when the world feels unsafe.

But figuring this out—even now—feels like a kind of freedom. It’s never too late.