Turns out healing is the ultimate uninvite.
When I was a wreck?
Oh honey, I had a fan club.
People were checking in, tagging me in memes about chaos,
and sending “you okay?” texts just vague enough to feel like concern.
We weren’t bonding.
We were trauma-latching.
Like leeches with matching tattoos.
But the second I started healing?
💨 Poof.
Support group became a ghost town.
Group chat? Muted.
Brunch invites? Gone.
Apparently, I was more fun when I was falling apart.
Less threatening. More relatable.
Easier to stand next to when I wasn’t standing up for myself.
I said “no” to the drama.
Suddenly, I was “difficult.”
I set a boundary?
Now I’m “negative.”
I stopped trauma-dumping and started growing?
Blocked.
Turns out, some friendships are just mutual dysfunction with a punchline.
And when I looked around for the folks who once “loved me no matter what”?
They only meant “no matter what—as long as I stayed broken.”
Once I started smiling without apology,
they started quiet quitting my life.
And you know what?
Good.
Because if my healing scares you,
that says everything about your comfort zone.
If my glow-up makes you go ghost,
I hope you find peace in the shadows.
Now?
I keep my circle tighter than my old coping mechanisms.
I’ve got friends who hype boundaries, not break them.
People who bring snacks, not sabotage.
And the bug spray?
Still in my purse.
Still labeled:
“Spray generously at the scent of manipulation or performative support.”
Because this version of me?
Isn’t up for codependent renewal.
She’s booked, blessed, and emotionally unavailable
for anyone who misses the disaster more than the damn recovery.
My Friends Did a Vanishing Act When I Got Healthy
I set a boundary. Heard a poof.
Suddenly solo under roof.
Turns out “you’ve changed” means “you got wise”—
And I stopped saying yes to lies.
The guest list shrank, my mind expanded—
I healed, and half the crowd disbanded.
But guess who stayed and found her flock?
This Phoenix with a trauma clock.
—The Funny Phoenix, hosting healthier house parties
