The Struggles of Holding On: How I Found Closure

By Halima

Losing a friendship unexpectedly is always difficult, but when that person simply ghosts you, the aftermath is a confusing, unending storm of emotions. Immediately, your mind fills with agonizing questions: What did I do? Was it my fault? Did I say something wrong? 

For months, this cycle of self-interrogation played out after every friend breakup I experienced. Since they never offered an explanation, I sat alone, consumed by the “what ifs.” I would constantly blame myself, wondering, “Could I have acted differently?” or “Should I have invested less of myself?” 

Even now, the uncertainty lingers. When you are ghosted, moving on is initially impossible. The lack of external closure keeps those questions stubbornly stuck in the back of your mind. It takes time, a long time, but eventually, you find a path forward. 

For a while, I used to believe that closure was only possible if I learned the truth from the other person一that I couldn’t move forward until I got those definitive answers. It wasn’t until recently that I finally learned the truth: I don’t need anyone else to grant me closure. I can find my own way. 

This was certainly true when I thought back to a friend I had in high school. I cared about her deeply and considered her a best friend, though deep down, I always knew the friendship was one-sided. I felt like I was consistently investing far more energy into the friendship than she was. 

She wasn’t a bad friend. In fact, there are kind things she did for me that I haven’t forgotten to this day. Like the times she drove me to my mother’s store after school. We had genuinely good moments the first two years of our friendship, especially our sophomore year of high school. I think that was the only year I felt valued and cared for. 

As the final months of high school unfolded, a quiet, unwelcome certainty settled in: this friendship, once a central part of my life, would not survive the imminent transition to college. Despite my intense reluctance to admit it, I recognized the subtle change in our relationship. It had been there for a while, but I was in denial. 

The worst part? I was right. 

The signs were impossible to ignore. It wasn't just the way she’d forget my birthday—a core friendship milestone—or the dizzying speed with which she’d pour all her time and energy into the latest guy. I could feel my own importance shrinking to zero. It was the constant emotional invalidation: when I needed support or finally mustered the courage to share something important about my life, she'd visibly check out. She’d zone in on her phone to look at random memes and laugh, or abruptly switch the topic back to herself the moment I finished speaking. I realized I was treated like a convenience—a microphone for her monologues, not a friend whose life mattered. I wasn’t the only one feeling the draft; the consensus in our wider group was that the friendship had become painfully one-sided. 

When I finally mustered the courage to bring it up, she always had her line ready. She’d deflect, insisting: “Ask this person, I do the same thing to her or him!” It was a bizarre form of defense, like bad treatment was somehow okay if it was towards everyone. Desperate for clarity, I once asked her, “Did I do something? Because I need to know why things feel so off.” Her response, every single time, was the cliché that stings the most: “No, it’s not you. It’s me.” 

Back then, I assumed she was lying to protect me, using that specific cliche line to avoid a difficult conversation. But looking back now? I finally got it. It really wasn't about me. It likely had nothing to do with my actions and everything to do with her own capacity to maintain deep connections. That realization didn't make the loss painless, but it did finally set the record straight. 

For years, I wore the blame like a heavy backpack. I continued to hold onto that frayed string even when it was practically dust. She became more and more distant, a ghost who only materialized when she wanted someone to rant to about her new friends, never bothering to ask about my life. 

The last straw came like a sudden, poorly-written curtain drop. After more than a month of radio silence, my phone rang. I picked it up immediately because it wasn't her number; it was our mutual friend's. I barely managed to say her name before she bulldozed past my greeting to ask if our friend liked her. Stunned, I blurted out, “I haven't heard from you in over a month, and this is the first thing you say?” She ignored my outrage completely, continuing to press me for information. I finally just gave in, confirmed what she already knew, and she immediately hung up the phone. I sat there, the phone heavy in my hand, overcome by a deep sadness and disappointment. At that moment, the fight left me. I knew it was truly over. 

Then COVID hit. Predictably, she never reached out. When we eventually returned to school, I ran into her. She spoke to me as if nothing had ever changed, as if we were still the tight-knit unit we had been years ago. I was quiet, pulled into her orbit only because she was helping a mutual friend who needed my assistance. On the ride home, she finally asked what was wrong. I swallowed my urge to be polite and gave her the unvarnished truth.

“I don’t understand why you still consider me a close friend,” I told her. Then, I explained why I no longer saw her that way: the ghosting, the way she had treated me like dirt in our last few interactions. It was brutally honest, and that was the last conversation we ever had. Our mutual friend told me I was too direct, but the wound was still fresh, and I knew that level of directness was the only thing that would help me process it and make her realize the feelings weren’t reciprocated. 

Even after that confrontation, the closure felt incomplete, an irritating itch that years couldn't scratch. I did the inevitable, foolish thing: I reached out again. We exchanged a few messages, and predictably, nothing came of it. That pointless attempt finally drilled the lesson home: I was seeking something she couldn't give me. Closure wasn't coming from her; it was something I had to build myself. The first necessary step toward moving on was getting her out of my life entirely. So, I went into my contacts, found her name, and deleted the number. 

The final act of deleting her number was the symbolic closing of that chapter, but the true healing wasn't immediate. It didn't arrive in a single moment of clarity. Instead, it was time that finally delivered the peace I needed. Time allowed me to step back from the pain and see the situation for what it was: a natural shift. I started to accept that sometimes, friendships simply drift apart. It’s not always a dramatic betrayal or a moral failing; sometimes a connection just runs its course, and that realization was surprisingly liberating. 

The biggest breakthrough, though, was truly internalizing that I didn't need her to validate my feelings or apologize for our history. For years, I believed closure was a package delivered by the other person—a confession, a reconciliation, a neat ending. I finally understood that I had the power to grant myself that peace. My lesson was this: Closure wasn't a conversation I needed to have with her; it was a decision I needed to make for myself. I stopped waiting for her to acknowledge my pain and, by doing so, I finally acknowledged my own worth. 

For anyone else stuck guarding that door, here’s the key I found to move on finally: You are your own deliverer of peace. 

How to Find Closure on Your Own Terms: 

1. Accept the Incomplete Narrative: You don't need them to finish the sentence. The constant disregard, the refusal to communicate, the one-sided effort—that is the final, definitive answer. The absence of an explanation is the explanation. Accept the reality you were given, not the fantasy you hoped for. 

2. Make a Symbolic Declaration: Deleting her number wasn't about being petty; it was a radical act of self-care. It was a physical action that declared an internal shift. Whether it's deleting a number, archiving a message thread, or unfollowing an account, make one symbolic gesture that says, "I am taking back my energy now."

3. Choose Your Worth Over Their Comfort: For years, my people-pleasing kept me guarding a dead friendship. Finding closure meant prioritizing my own peace over the comfort of an association that was long past its expiration date. My feelings of sadness and disappointment were more valuable than maintaining a pretense. 

You can be the author of your own ending. You can grant yourself the peace you've been demanding from someone who simply can't give it. I stopped waiting for her to acknowledge my pain, and by doing so, I finally acknowledged my own worth. That was the moment I truly found closure.