I remember it so vividly – it was the time when days turned into nights and nights turned into, well, more nights, and the west of Ireland wasn’t an ocean, but it may as well have been with the amount of rain that fell. I was studying at the University of Galway (my former university) and a friend and I, let’s call her Judith, were running late to attend one of our law lectures. We were sprinting down the road next to the university with the spirit of Allyson Felix within us, our legs barely able to keep up with our arms. I distinctly remember the torrential downpour that fell on us that blessed day, our clothes drenched and our eyes blinking steadfastly against the bucketing rain. With nothing but our flimsy jackets and an excuse of an umbrella, the two of us ran, the rain plastering our hair to our scalps, soaking us to our very bones. I remember us laughing so unbelievably hard, despite our mouths being full of likely acidic water, and that we looked like two people on the very edge of drowning. When we finally arrived at the lecture (with one minute to spare, no less), our classmates were bewildered by the two soaked cats they saw standing before them. Although Judith and I no longer talk, this is one of my most beloved memories.
I’ve found that friendships are extraordinary things. One moment you’re talking about being godparents to your future kids, and the next moment you’re avoiding eye contact as you pass each other on campus. It’s so funny, the way someone whose presence we once cherished so much ends up becoming a piece of old furniture thrown out to the skip. When we talk about friendships falling apart, it always seems to be underpinned with sadness, awkwardness, and borderline bitterness. Those feelings permeate the shared memories between the two people, twisting memories and altering events to fit the least self-accusatory narrative that one can create. With the number of podcasts dedicated to listeners calling in to air their grievances about their so-called “friend” or “ex-friend”, it’s no wonder that attitudes towards friendships and shared memories have soured somewhat in recent years. Someone is always in the wrong, someone is always to blame, and even if it wasn’t a particularly devastating event, there is always an underlying awkwardness that surrounds those recollections. Â
However, I’ve recently come to believe that friendships that end often leave behind the most vivid, cherished memories because they are frozen in time. Think about your favourite memory with your best friend. If the two of you no longer spoke, would that change your mind about that day? Should it? The day that you laughed so loudly in the library, you got kicked out? Or when you hid in her closet because her friend, whom you had a crush on, stopped by her house? Or when you pretended to be on a honeymoon so that you could get free drinks at that fancy restaurant? Perhaps it’s through rose-coloured glasses, but when I look back at my aforementioned friendship, I don’t focus on the aching silences or the gradual distancing. Instead, I think about the things I loved the most: the nostalgia, the laughter, the incredibly dubious inside jokes. I still giggle about them now. They become recipes that you cannot recreate, dreams you cannot experience again, sunsets that no camera can recapture. Perhaps that’s what makes them so bittersweet.
Of course, there is the duality of memory. We cannot erase whatever it was that eroded the relationship between the two of you. Some friendships end distastefully, with arguments and fights tainting a relationship that was once held dear. To erase the past would be to avoid the truth. Why should we glorify or idolise relationships that ended in betrayal, misunderstanding, or simply silence? One could argue that simply romanticising past events is a waste of time and stops you from truly finding your “people,” as it were.Â
But I don’t think so. I think the most valuable memories are the ones carefully stitched together with equal parts laughter and loss. The joy that was shared was no less real than the pain. Broken friendships are not obstacles so much as teachers. They show us how deeply we are capable of caring, what brings us joy, and what we will not tolerate again. They allow us to reminisce on what it means to be happy, and to capture the fleeting and joyful moments before they fly past us. In this way, we can each fill up our own precious bottles of memories and understand that no matter what the outcome of that relationship was, we can always hold on to those moments. They are forever ours. Shared. Together. That connection, no matter how temporary, has the power to shape who we become. I used to think that sounded sad, but now it sounds comforting.