To the Friend Who Couldn’t Love the Authentic Me

Two young children holding hands, symbolizing childhood friendship and emotional connection.

To the Friend Who Abandoned Me When I Needed You Most,

"Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other's gold." We learned that song when we were just five years old, holding hands in a circle wearing our little green Daisy vests.

Who could’ve guessed what the next 35 years would hold for us? We weren't just fast friends—our families became extensions of each other. From elementary school on, we were inseparable—endless nights of Nintendo in your basement, softball games that turned into ice cream trips, and sleepovers that blurred into daydreams about growing old side by side.

Back then, we built a whole future in our heads. And honestly? I liked those dreams better than how things actually turned out. Because, even in those earliest years, there was a tension. An invisible thread pulling us in different directions. We didn’t talk about it or even truly understand it. But it was always there. Our parents didn’t parent the same in any way and yet we celebrated every Christmas Eve together for as long as I can remember.

We lived with different priorities, but we were forever intertwined—tied together by tradition, history, and the kind of loyalty that used to feel unshakable.

No matter who hurt who (and we both hurt one another a fair share), we somehow always found our way back to each other. It seemed like when it really mattered, we showed up.

We grew in different directions—chose different paths, chased different dreams, built our lives from different angles. But I always believed that truth was our throughline. That no matter what else shifted, we’d hold the mirror for each other and say the hard things anyway.

I did that before your first wedding—and you cut me out of it. That pain is still buried inside me.

You lived through chaos, hurt and heartbreak, and I watched without judgment. I stood beside you as you navigated choices I wouldn’t have made—not because I always understood, but because I loved you. It was your life to live. And I stood beside you.

But when it was my turn to need that same grace—it wasn’t there. So I pulled back. Slowly. Quietly. I told you less. Kept it surface level. Doing all I could to keep you in my life…

But you made it clear: that wasn’t going to happen.

I still can’t wrap my head around how and why it all fell apart. All I know is that as soon as I said I was moving there was a switch. You sat next to me on the couch telling me over and over why going was the wrong thing to do and questioning my decision, but I could chalk that up to concern and let that go. But what happened next—what happened next—is forever burned into my memory and I can’t let go.

I had been down here in Pittsburgh for about four months and it was the start of the holiday season.

I was just beginning to weave sex and kink into my coaching content—and I was still wildly uncomfortable saying any of it out loud. But the knowing inside me had gotten so loud I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I kept hearing it over and over: This is the next step. You have to put it out there. Build it. If you build it, they will come.

I’d resisted that voice for so long, and by then, the fear was consuming me. What I needed most in that moment was love. Support. Someone in my corner. But that’s not what I got.

That morning, I posted a freebie on Facebook: “5 Myths to Non-Monogamy.” It was a simple PDF, naming common misconceptions about open relationships. I thought I was building a bridge—starting a real conversation. It wasn’t news to anyone in my life. Everyone knew two things for sure: I was deeply in love with AC, and we weren’t monogamous.

Silly me, thinking the people who knew and loved me would either support it or quietly scroll on by.

Instead, you and the rest of my family unloaded thirty-plus years of resentment—right there on a public thread for everyone to see.

You came for me as a mother. You told me non-monogamy was dangerous. That it would traumatize my kids. Which shocked me, because you knew the truth. You knew AC was the only partner they’d ever met. You knew I wasn’t dragging strangers in and out of their lives.

You tore AC apart too—accusing him of not financially supporting me, even though we didn’t live together and he isn’t the father of my children.

Then my family jumped in. Told me to get a “real job.” Made it loud and clear they didn’t respect my work. And you—you dug up old shit from college and threw it in my face like it was proof I was broken.

I picked up the phone to call you—because I couldn’t believe what I was reading. It wasn’t about non-monogamy. It was a public bash session. When you answered, the words that came out of your mouth turned my stomach.

You accused me of being a stripper. Of having an OnlyFans account. Of traumatizing my children beyond belief.

You said you wanted custody of my daughter—because my parents “shouldn’t be burdened” with her. You said I had given up on her. That I gave her away.

You told me everyone in “this lifestyle” is a drug addict. You called me names I won’t repeat, while insisting you were “the least judgmental person alive.”

You accused me of taking advantage of my parents. Of abusing them. Then, out of nowhere, you brought up the fact that they let me study abroad in college—like that was proof I was ungrateful.

I couldn’t follow your logic. I couldn’t connect the dots. The hardest drug I’ve ever touched was weed in college—and it ended with me sleeping through a Dave Matthews concert we drove four hours for. So how did I suddenly become a stripper drug addict with an OnlyFans account just because I’m in an open relationship?

And the thing that sticks with me the most—you asked me more than once:
“What should I tell people when they ask about your OnlyFans?”

I didn’t even have one. But I was furious—and not just for myself. For every woman who does. Because if I did… if that’s how I was paying my bills—so the fuck what? Why does that matter?

You didn’t believe that I was coaching.
You couldn’t see how it was possible—because I had already stopped telling you and the rest of the family so much, you’d started filling in the blanks with your own stories.

I tried to explain that most of my clients at the time were couples. They were curious about threesomes—unsure how to proceed, or still deciding if it was even a good idea.

It wasn’t something I was actively marketing. But people were finding me. It was growing. Organically. And the conversations were real and necessary.

I loved doing that work—because it mattered. But I also knew: my very conservative family and friends would never understand.

And I was right.

You let everything fall out of that bag that day—and there was no stuffing those pent-up feelings back inside. It was all out. The ugly was shining. And in that moment, I hit block.

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It’s been over 18 months.

I don’t know if you’ll ever understand the damage you caused—but those cuts run deep.
I will always love you. But we will never sit together and laugh again.
I won’t call to tell you about a date.
I won’t confide in you again.

Because what I learned the hard way is this:
Anything you didn’t agree with, you held onto—until you could throw it back at me.

I won’t be there to watch your kids grow up. And you will never again be near mine.

I expected to miss you more than I do.
But maybe I always knew… you didn’t have the capacity to love and accept me as I truly am.

Still, I wish you nothing but the best. I hope you get all that you want out of life. I hope your children stay happy and healthy.

I’ll think of you from time to time.
Sometimes, it’ll bring a smile.
Sometimes, it’ll sting and I’ll have to wipe away a tear.

But what it won’t do…
Is change my mind.