Message to my readers:
The message above is an actual email I received on the morning of Sunday, July 20, 2025. The sender is someone I met her through Bumble BFF (a platform for meeting female friends) while I was in Montreal taking care of my late mother’s home. We had only known each other for less than two month before I returned to Vancouver. Below is my contemplative response to her email. I have not written back, nor do I intend to.

My Response To That Email

This could have been a conversation, and I’m not sure why you chose to send a one-way email. You’re entitled to your feelings, but the way you’ve chosen to express them – through accusation and dismissal – says more about where you are than who I am.

I’ve been sitting with your message, trying to make sense of the weight behind your words. You say you felt used. That nothing about me is real. That from my name to my silence, I am some kind of illusion. I’m not sure which is more disturbing – those words themselves, or how quickly you were willing to erase all the care, attention, and presence I offered you without hesitation.

In Montréal, I showed up. In turn, you consistently showed up late – both literally and figuratively. I listened to you with my whole being. I held space for your thoughts, your family pain, your self-doubt. I now realize that most of your stories were rooted in disillusionment. Perhaps I was under a kind of spell myself, longing for friendship at any cost. I fell under the glamour of believing that if I listened enough and gave the right feedback, you would eventually see how beautiful you truly are (but that didn’t work out well). So I just let you speak. I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t shrink. I didn’t run. I let you be fully human in your rawness, and I gave generously of my energy and time – both of which were limited – all while I was grieving. And still am.

But over time, it became clear that the emotional toll was one-sided. That you saw my presence as a given, not a gift. You mistook my attentiveness for obligation. You needed an audience, and I played that role – until I couldn’t anymore. Not because I stopped caring, but because I had to begin caring for myself. I lost myself in the belief that I was supposed to help you. But no one can save someone else. Healing is our own responsibility. We are adults, and we must be accountable for our thoughts and actions.

I will own the part I played: I overextended myself. I tried to be the endlessly attentive friend. Maybe that didn’t serve you in the way I imagined it would. I had hoped that, over time, you would recognize that blaming others for your pain only perpetuates the suffering. But that recognition never came.

When I returned home to Vancouver, it wasn’t an abandonment. It was a transition – back to life, and away from the obligations of managing my mother’s estate. A shift. One I hoped would be met with curiosity or grace. I shared with you snippets of my life: videos, pictures, and reached out over Zoom. This was my way of staying connected. But instead of responding with openness or positivity, you met nearly every interaction with disappointment. Or you would begin talking about your parents, how much you hate your adult sister, and how cruel they were to you growing up. You spoke poorly about your friend Anna, shared details about her affairs, and said you told your father about them. He made jokes about her sexual conduct and that titillated you. I think back now and can see all of that was odd. You spoke in circles. It became a pattern. I can only take so much negativity. Eventually, it felt like you were weaponizing every happy moment. How can you sustain a relationship with someone who struggles to show kindness to themselves? As I can clearly see now, these were all hints at a bigger issue. And what could you have said about me?

The distance from Vancouver triggered something in you, and rather than sitting with that discomfort, you’ve turned it into a personal attack. I understand that might feel easier than confronting the deeper wound underneath it. When I sent you a text about my wonderful day at the baseball park your response text alluded to an underlying pain. You made all dialogue with you difficult because all you can talk about is your pain, it was all about you. Any happy thing that came up in conversation you’d immediately size it up and sh*t on it. I shared that with you, made a request and somehow you forgot along the way.

You believe that the energy we put into the world comes back to us. I do, too. Which is why I am releasing you with clarity. I know what I gave you. I know it came from a true place. My intentions were real.  And just because I could no longer be everything you needed does not mean I was never sincere.

What your email reveals is utter disappointment that I stopped orbiting around you. It is your grief over no longer being the centre of attention. But I was never meant to fill that role. I realize that I overextended myself, and I now know what my limits are. I was never meant to be your endless sounding board, your free therapist, your emotional anchor. That was a dynamic you created, not a mutual agreement. I gave you the best of myself. And now, all of that wasn’t enough anyway.

So if you are now rewriting me as insincere, perhaps ask yourself: who did you believe I was, and what part of you needed me to be that? Because I never pretended – I listened. You projected. And now that I’ve stepped out of the role, it feels like betrayal to you.

I needed space for myself and have been limited in my capacity. But since you are so focused on yourself, you looked past that. You expected an immediate response to your texts. In friendship, I believe silence is sometimes okay. Not every message needs a reply to stay connected. You have not responded to every one of my texts, and I never made it a big deal. From what I can see, I was the one who last texted you.

I need to ask for forgiveness – not from you, but from myself. My work now is to forgive the part of me that stayed too long. The version of me who kept hoping, who kept bending, who kept believing that if I just gave a little more, it would finally feel mutual. I stayed in the discomfort because I wanted to believe in the connection. I overlooked the subtle dismissals, the emotional weight I was carrying alone, because I thought that being a good friend meant enduring. But I see now that I abandoned myself in the process. I quieted my needs to keep the peace, not realizing that peace built on dismissing oneself is not peace at all.

So today, I choose something different. I choose to protect the version of me who is finally learning to say no without guilt. The one who no longer tries to earn love through sacrifice. The one who understands that her energy is sacred and that not everyone is meant to sit at her table. That is not cruelty. That is clarity. That is healing. And that is where I begin again.

Really, for your own well-being, please know the world is not out to hurt you. I have seen you cause more pain to yourself through negative self-talk than anyone else ever could. Take the time to breathe in life, appreciate what you have, and start by being grateful.

So now, I am setting a boundary with you. In truth, it goes beyond a boundary. This is a break from you.

I won’t defend my character to someone who has already decided I’m an invention. But I will say this: I know how I show up in people’s lives. I know the kind of friend I am. And your erasure of that says far more about your discomfort with unmet expectations than it does about my integrity.

I release you with compassion. But I also reclaim the narrative. You don’t get to define me through the lens of your hurt.

Not every ending is betrayal. Some endings are exits from roles we were never meant to audition for.

I sincerely wish you all the best in life and hope you find peace both within yourself and in your relationships with others. This brief friendship has taught me a lot about myself, and for that, I am genuinely grateful that we met. God bless.

Why I Publically Posted My Response