I've never really been good at making friends.
The truth is, I'm an introvert. The idea of walking up to someone, saying hello, introducing myself, and risking rejection has always been terrifying to me. What if they don't like me? What if I embarrass myself? What if they think I'm weird?
Thankfully, life had other plans.
Because of my work, I've learned how to become a professional extrovert. I can walk into a room full of strangers, network, host events, interview people, and carry conversations like I've known them forever. At this point, most people don't even believe me when I say I'm an introvert.
But here's the thing: being able to talk to people doesn't mean trusting them comes easily.
Over the years, I've learned a difficult lesson. Just because you're kind to people doesn't mean they'll be kind to you. Just because your intentions are good doesn't mean theirs are.
So I've become careful. Actually, scratch that. I've become very careful. I don't actively look for new friendships anymore. Not because I'm bitter, but because I've been burned enough times to know that not everyone who smiles at you deserves a seat at your table.
Besides, I already have my people. The ride-or-die friends. The ones who have seen me at my best, my worst, and every awkward phase in between. The ones who would show up at 2 a.m. if I needed them. The ones who don't need daily conversations to prove they care.
I wasn't looking for new friends.
But somehow, someone managed to sneak past the gates. She made an effort. She inserted herself into my life. She was friendly, attentive, and persistent enough that I eventually thought, "Maybe she's different."
Now, to be fair, several people warned me. My brother warned me. My friends warned me. You know when everyone around you gets a weird vibe from someone, but you convince yourself they're being unfair? That was me. I thought, "Maybe this time they're wrong."
Spoiler alert: they weren't.
As our friendship progressed, there were moments when she disrespected me. Little things. Annoying things. Red flags dressed up as misunderstandings. I let them go because that's what we do when we want to believe the best in people.
Then I found out she had been insinuating that I was a thief. Not jokingly. Not accidentally. Actually implying that I take things simply because I want them. That was the moment something snapped.
What hurt was the betrayal. The realization that someone I had welcomed into my life, defended, and trusted had been quietly creating a narrative about me behind my back.
That hurt. A lot.
I found myself wondering why people do things like this. Why befriend someone if you're secretly competing with them? Why stay close to someone if you're busy tearing them down? Why pretend? Why lie?
Maybe she thought I was competition. Maybe she thought I wanted attention. Maybe she thought I wanted to be the main character. The funny thing is, anyone who knows me knows that's not true. Most days, I'd happily sit in a corner with a coffee, a notebook, and zero human interaction.
I eventually stopped trying to understand her. People like that aren't really a puzzle you need to solve. They're a lesson you need to learn.
I remembered something I've heard many times before: Hurt people hurt people. The things people say and do are often reflections of themselves, not reflections of you.
So to this so-called friend, thank you. Thank you for showing me who you are before I invested even more trust in you. Yes, you hurt me. Yes, I cried. Yes, I spent a day replaying everything in my head but I'm okay now.
The greatest gift a snake can give you is revealing itself before it gets close enough to bite again. You weren't a friend. You were simply a snake wearing sheep's clothing. Now that I know, I can keep my distance. I can close the gate. I can protect my peace. And most importantly, I can keep you out of my garden.
The flowers are doing just fine without you.
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