The Friend Who Keeps on Giving
And the quiet exhaustion that comes with it.
This year, I've been sitting with a tender truth: I am often the giver, the one who pours and shows up with care and intention. The friend who initiates the monthly meet-up, the one who invites people on walks or over for tea. The one constantly thinking of ways to connect to those I hold close. And yet, I've started to notice, more and more, how rare it feels to have that same energy reflected back to me. I do not expect grand gestures, constant attention, or daily communication—but I do want to be considered, to feel like someone is holding me in their heart with the same tenderness I extend to others.
This essay has been sitting in my drafts for weeks. Every time I revisit it, I hesitate. I've been reluctant to finish it, let alone hit publish because I worry about how it might come across—whiny, needy, or ungrateful. But as the days have passed, I've felt this gentle nudge to sit with my discomfort and explore why these feelings of sadness have been swirling around me. My next book is about friendship, so I initially thought all of this was because the topic of relationships has been at the top of my mind as I write "The Company We Keep." But I uncovered that it's deeper than that. Everything that's come to the surface feels like both a revelation and a wound I've been carrying for much of my life: the hurt of feeling like an afterthought. It's not an easy truth to admit, and I do not like or want to feel this way. There have been moments when I've talked myself out of my feelings—rationalizing that everyone has a lot going on.
Life is life'ing. Time is tight. Etc.
And with all those things being true for others, they're also very true for me, and I still show up.
I make intentional space for people, even with three kids to care for. I carve out time, even as a partner with a full and demanding home and work life. It's not because I feel obligated—it's because relationships outside of my roles as a mother, author, and wife are vital to me. They're grounding for me. They remind me of who I am beyond the titles and responsibilities. They anchor me. And I am honored to invest my time, energy, and effort into my interpersonal relationships.
I've had to confront this recently: Everyone doesn't feel the same way. Everyone isn't anchored by their close relationships in the way that I am. Everyone doesn't want the same thing, or think the same way. And while that truth doesn't make me love them any less, it does sting sometimes. It feels tender to realize that something so essential to me may not hold the same weight for others. But this is humanness in its rawest form. Everything isn't for everyone. Our priorities are diverse—that's not a bad thing—it's just a different thing.
This morning, during meditation, I let that truth wash over me. Instead of resisting the discomfort, I tried to hold myself with compassion. It's OK if people don't show up in the ways I do. It's OK if their priorities, needs, and emotional landscapes differ from mine. That doesn't diminish the love we share. But it also doesn't mean my feelings of sadness aren't valid.
Both can coexist: accepting what is and adjusting the energy I choose to exert.
The older I get, the more I realize that relationships, like everything in life, require learning how to harmonize. Relationships also require action. Connection cannot thrive in a passive state. A big lesson in this for me is recognizing that we can continue to love deeply, create space, and show up for the people we care about while also holding space for ourselves—space to honor feelings, set boundaries when needed, and ask for the care we desire and deserve.
It's not selfish to want reciprocity. It's human.
So here I am, choosing to finish this essay and share it, not because I have it all figured out but because this is part of my truth this season. Relationships matter to me. Connection matters to me. And I'm learning to navigate the tender spaces where my needs and other's realities don't always align. There's grace in that, I think—grace for myself and grace for others. This season, I look forward to stepping closer to a version of connection that feels mutual, nourishing, and whole.
Through all of this, I've been thinking about roles in relationships (as a whole) and how easy it is for certain dynamics to go unquestioned. Over the past 10 years, I've felt that I've been seen as the one who has it "all together." The one who doesn't need anything. The one who will figure it out. The one with the finances. The one with the connections. The self-employed one. The one who's looked at as "no longer relatable"—and that sucks. Somewhere along the way, I became "the strong one," the "free one," and an unspoken assumption was born: She's good. She doesn't need help. She has a husband. She's fine. She has children, we don't need to invite her. She has a busy career. She's fulfilled. She has other people in her life. She doesn't need me.
Truthfully, I think the ache from these types of assumptions stems from a lack of curiosity and intention. That is what hurts the most. I also know that people are busy and that life gets overwhelming. Sometimes, it's too overwhelming to be intentional or curious about anything other than what you've got going on. I understand that we're all carrying more than we may let on. But even with that understanding, a tenderness rises in me when I think about how much I share and how little I feel replenished. I was talking with one of my dearest friends the other day, and she said something that struck me: "I take care of everyone, but who takes care of me?" She went on to say, "You're one of the only people who check in on me." Her words settled deep in my bones, echoing a question I've wrestled with myself: I pour and pour, but who is pouring into me? Who is checking in on me?
Even admitting that feels like a struggle as if voicing it opens the door to doubt. I catch myself wondering, Alex, are you giving because it's who you are, or are you giving with the hope of receiving in return? It's a tension that sits quietly but persistently, asking to be examined.
While unpacking all of this, I believe multiple truths can coexist. It's natural to desire relationships that nourish and leave us feeling seen, held, and supported. Connection flourishes through a balance of giving and receiving. Through communication about capacity and care. Through curiosity over the assumption that your "strong friends" don't need time or tending to. Emotional intimacy and safety can take deeper root when we make purposeful time for the ones we hold close—which can then blossom into trust, connection, and true reciprocity.
Thoughtfulness means so much to me—being remembered, being seen, being cared for in small but intentional ways. Navigating these moments of feeling invisible has been a lot to hold. I've had a lot of moments this year when I wonder who pauses to consider what I might need and what might make me feel held.
As 2024 comes to a close, I will continue to sit with this, tracing the roots. That's what my work is. And while this all feels familiar and tied to a pattern of being expected to hold it together, to carry more than my fair share, in 2025 I am letting go of the idea that I need to continue to rise to the occasion of being the vessel rarely refilled. I am learning to break that pattern. It has followed me into adulthood, shaping how I show up in my relationships and how others show up—or don't—for me.
This month, I admitted for the first time that I am tired of being the good thoughtful friend. It's a quiet exhaustion—one that so many of us have felt when we've been pouring and pouring without being replenished. And while I am feeling worn down by being the one who initiates, coordinates, and reaches out—I do not want the generosity of my heart to disappear.
So, I'm [also] learning to name my needs with those who have shown that they consider me and care, even though this all feels excruciatingly vulnerable and uncomfortable.
Naming our needs is an act of self-love, a way of saying that—we, too, are worthy of the care and thoughtfulness we give others. Open, honest, and compassionate communication is a blessing to the right people, not a hindrance.
None of this is easy. It feels like peeling back a layer of armor many of us have worn for decades—armor that told us it's safer to go without than to risk the vulnerability of asking. However, in 2025, I hope we unlearn that and discover that asking for what we need is not a weakness but a strength.
This is my reminder—to myself, and perhaps to you—that relationships flourish when the giving is mutual and when the pouring happens on both sides. And in naming this, I'm stepping into a new season of my own healing, one where I honor both the love I give and the love I deserve.
May we all navigate the complexities of life with compassion and communication. May we all do better at being more intentional with those we say we love. May we all do our best to make more room for each other when, where, and while we can.
May all that is to be, be so.
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Absolutely stunning! Thank you! Reading your words was like a glimpse into my own mind, I’ve journaled many of the same sentiments.
At the end of 2023 I made a conscious decision to stop reaching out to people who never called or checked on me. An interesting thing happened, I heard crickets. It was painful but the resentment I began to feel from “chasing” friendships with people who really put no effort into me, became way too much.
I notice there are times when I’ll reach out still, then regret it afterwards. It’s in my nature to check on people, make time, but I’m tired of not getting the same.
I love what you said that despite your busy life, you make time for nurturing friendships. Years ago I realized that all these people who were “too busy” for me, were busy spending time with people who mattered to them. I deserve to matter. I’ve not been the perfect friend, but I’m someone who will be there and build with those who are interested in mutuality.
Now, I’m building intentional relationships with who make me a part of their busy. I deserve that.
Thank you for such a profound easy. So necessary!
Blessings!
I read every single word of this two times through. The resonance I felt in your words was palpable. Thank you for sharing even in the tenderness and fear. YES.