I don’t like admitting it, but I’ve kept people in my life far longer than they deserved, and not because they were good for me. If I peeled back the layers of loyalty I pretended to have, I’d find something rawer, something less flattering: I kept them because of what they gave me, even if what they gave me was messy, fractured, or cruel. It wasn’t the kind of love that makes you bloom; it was the kind that leaves you exhausted, but still tethered, because part of me needed them more than I wanted to walk away.
Toxic friendships don’t usually announce themselves with flashing red lights. They seep in quietly. They show up in the forms of inside jokes, late-night calls, and shared history that feels too heavy to abandon. And yet, beneath that nostalgia and familiarity, there’s a darker thread—an edge of competition, envy, or control that digs in and refuses to let go. I’ve felt it in my gut when I hung up the phone, drained after another conversation where their crisis eclipsed my own life. I’ve felt it in the subtle digs disguised as jokes, the backhanded compliments, the way I questioned my worth after spending time with them. And still, I didn’t leave.
Why? Because if I’m honest, I was just as selfish as they were toxic. I liked having them around when the loneliness felt too sharp. I liked being needed, even if it was in their chaos. I liked the validation that came when they confided in me, even if they never really saw me. Keeping them was a kind of survival, a way to patch over my own cracks with their presence, even if that presence was poison.
I think part of me wanted to be the better one, the savior, the loyal friend who never left no matter how ugly it got. It gave me sense of importance. I could point to my patience, my forgiveness, and call it love, when in truth, it was fear. Fear of being alone, fear of the silence that would echo if I cut them off, fear that without their drama and noise, I’d have to face myself more clearly.
Some of these friendships were built on history that felt sacred. I told myself, but we’ve been through so much together, as if surviving time was reason enough to excuse their betrayals. The more years stacked up, the more it felt impossible to walk away, as though longevity was proof of depth. But length and loyalty are not the same thing. I clung to the timeline instead of the truth.
Other times, I’ve kept them around because they reflected a version of myself I didn’t want to lose. Maybe they represented my wild years, my rebellion, my reckless nights. Keeping them close was like keeping a piece of that girl alive, even though I’ve outgrown her. And sometimes, I stayed because their chaos made mine look smaller. If their life was burning, my little flames felt easier to mange. It’s not pretty to admit, but it’s real.
When I sit with it long enough, I realize I’ve been just as complicit in the toxicity as they were. By staying, I taught them that their behavior was acceptable. By laughing off the digs, I gave them permission to keep making them. By picking up the phone every time, I told them my boundaries were flexible. And maybe I liked that dance more than I cared to admit, because it gave me a role to play—someone who sacrifices, someone who endures, someone who’s “strong enough” to handle it. But strong doesn’t always mean wise.
It’s strange, the intimacy you can share with toxic people. The memories, the secrets, the familiar ways they can wound you because they know exactly where your soft spots are. Sometimes I think I stayed because I didn’t want to lose that intimacy, even if it was twisted. Better the sharpness of their presence than the emptiness of absence. That’s how I justified it, at least.
But every time I walked away from them, even temporarily, I felt lighter. The absence didn’t swallow me whole like I feared—it gave me space to breathe. And still, I’d go back. I’d convince myself they were different now, or I was different now, and maybe we could meet in the middle. We never did. Toxic patterns rarely untangle themselves when both people are too invested in their roles.
I think about the selfishness in all this—the way I wasn’t keeping the out of love, but out of need. I needed distraction, validation, nostalgia, comfort, even if it came wrapped in hurt. It wasn’t about them, not really. It was about the holes I hadn’t learned how to fill on my own. And until I could admit that, I kept circling the same friendships like a moth around a flame, burning quietly, pretending I couldn’t leave. Letting go of toxic friends feels like grieving, but it’s also an act of accountability. It forces me to face the parts of myself that stayed for the wrong reasons. I can’t just point to them and say they were the problem. I have to look at why I invited the problem in, why I entertained it, why I fed it. And that’s harder, because it makes me responsible too.
Some days I wonder if I’ll ever fully stop being tempted to keep toxic people around. Part of me still craves the familiarity, the drama, the noise. But now I can see that craving for what it really is—a hunger for distraction, for comfort, for a warped mind of intimacy. I don’t shame myself for it anymore. I just try to remind myself that I deserve connections that don’t drain me, friendships that don’t leave me questioning my worth when the night is over.
The toxic friends kept taught me something, even if it wasn’t what they intended. They showed me my patterns, my fears, my selfishness. They held up a mirror I didn’t want to look into, but needed to. And while I may never be proud of why I stayed, I can at least be honest about it now. Honesty has a way of softening the grip of guilt, of giving me permission to do better.
Walking away doesn’t erase the memories, or the version of me that needed them. But it does give me room to create friendships rooted in something truer—mutual respect, mutual love, mutual growth. Not the kind that leaves me empty, but the kind that makes me more of who I already am. And I think, in the end, that’s worth letting go for.
Lanalefay 