I recently got married to the love of my life. It was one of the most grounding, meaningful experiences I’ve ever had. It gave me a deep sense that I’ve stepped into a new chapter of my life. Lately, though, there’s been this weight I can’t shake—and it’s not coming from me, it’s coming from someone I’ve known almost my whole life: my oldest friend
We’ve been close since childhood. We’ve shared memories, jokes, growing pains, and all the in-between. But as we’ve gotten older, I’ve moved forward, and he hasn’t. He’s still living at home, bouncing between addictions, drifting from job to job, and trying to keep the past alive—clinging to our wild younger days like they’re still relevant. For a long time, I tried to stay loyal to the bond we had. I kept answering the phone, kept making space for him, even when it felt like he was emotionally stuck on repeat.
Before the wedding, we had a long talk where he opened up about feeling depressed and lonely. He said he regretted pushing people away with alcohol, that he was trying to turn things around. I believed him. At least, I wanted to.
Then came the wedding. He told me he wouldn’t drink. He ended up getting drunk, asked my 17-year-old nephew to drive him home, and even made him stop at a store so he could buy more alcohol. He stayed up drinking alone all night. The next morning, my brother saw him drop his bag of drugs on the floor.
And since then? No acknowledgment. No apology. Just memes and sentimental Instagram videos like nothing happened—like he’s still my “ride or die,” like the damage didn’t matter. We had lunch a few days ago, and it just felt empty. He barely said anything about the wedding, like he didn’t want to talk about it. The spark of our old friendship was gone, replaced with awkward silences and surface-level chatter.
Then, as if nothing was out of place, he invited me to strip club. A few days after my wedding. I was stunned. Here I am, trying to build a life, a marriage, a future—and he’s still trying to pull me back into the fog of staying up all night and pretending we’re 25 again. I said no, of course, but afterward, I felt something shift.
I’ve started calling him “the vortex” in my head, because that’s what it feels like. He pulls people in—into his chaos, his stagnation, his need to keep everything frozen in the past—and it’s always at their expense. I’ve spent years trying to hold onto this friendship out of loyalty, but I think I’m finally seeing that the version of us I’m loyal to no longer exists.
How do you let go of someone you once loved, who now only brings confusion, disappointment, and emotional drag into your life? How do you walk away without guilt, when the truth is… you’ve already been gone for a while?
This is one of the most heartbreaking, honest letters I’ve read in a long time. And I need you to hear me when I say this: you are not a bad friend for outgrowing chaos.
What you’re describing isn’t just a story of a friendship drifting apart. It’s a funeral for a version of your life that no longer exists. And you’re grieving it the way anyone would grieve something that mattered. Because it did matter. That friendship got you through childhood, late nights, breakups, probably even a few near-misses you’re lucky to have made it out of. He was your person during a certain chapter. And that chapter is over.
But here’s the painful truth most people never want to say out loud: not everyone is meant to go with you into your next season. Especially when your next season is rooted in stability, growth, and commitment—and theirs is still trapped in denial, addiction, and nostalgia.
You got married. You stood in front of the people you love and made a vow to build something sacred, strong, and lasting. That’s a line in the sand. A before and an after. And your friend? He didn’t just stumble over that line—he lit it on fire. He lied to you, put a kid at risk, brought drugs into your wedding weekend, and then tried to pretend like it didn’t happen. That’s not a mistake. That’s a pattern. That’s who he is right now.
And you can’t save him.
You can’t love someone into sobriety. You can’t meme your way into healing a friendship that’s already spiritually dead. And you cannot—cannot—build a future while dragging the weight of someone else’s refusal to grow behind you.
Letting go doesn’t make you disloyal. It makes you honest. It says, “I love who we were, but I can’t sacrifice who I’m becoming.” And that’s not cruel. That’s courageous.
You don’t need a dramatic exit. No big speeches. Just boundaries. Stop answering the texts. Stop accepting the invitations. Let the silence speak for itself. If he ever decides to change—really change—you can decide then if there’s space for reconciliation. But until that day comes, your responsibility is to protect your marriage, your peace, and the future you’re trying to build.
You’ve already left the friendship emotionally. Now you just have to give yourself permission to leave physically.
You’re not alone. You’re not a traitor. You’re just a man who’s done living in the past. And that is something to be proud of.