Friendships
The ones that survive, the ones that don't, the new ones. The audit no one wants to do at 45.
In progress5 min↓ 897 words
§ Journey
The ones that survive, the ones that don't, the new ones. The audit no one wants to do at 45.
Around month nine, I did a small audit. Twenty-three names in my regular contact list at the start of 2024. Twelve still there at the end of it. The other eleven hadn't disappeared in some dramatic way. They'd just gone quiet, and I'd let them.
The men who stayed weren't necessarily the closest ones. They were the ones who refused, point blank, to "pick a side". The men who didn't stay were almost all good men who'd known us as a couple and quietly defaulted to her side of the address book because that's where the easier social geometry was.
This module is about that audit. Who survived, who didn't, who showed up out of nowhere, and the unglamorous Saturday-morning discipline that keeps the new map intact.
The friends who got through the divorce intact share a small set of traits.
That's the spec. Now you know who passed.
It's mostly her friends. Not because they were bad. Because the friendship was held in place by her, by the dinner parties, by the kids' birthday parties, by the Christmas Eve gathering. Those structures gone, the friendship has nothing to hold onto.
You will lose:
Don't chase. The chase is undignified and rarely works. A short text twice a year keeps the door open. They walk back through it on their own time or they don't.
The replacement friends are often better than the ones who left.
Three categories that show up.
The blend matters. Three of the second category, three of the third, and one or two of the first is roughly the shape of a life that doesn't get lonely on a Wednesday night.
Friendships at 40+ don't survive on goodwill. They survive on logistics.
The single discipline that has held my new friend network together is a Saturday morning coffee, scheduled with a different man, every two to three weeks. A small rotating cast of five or six. Each gets a coffee with me roughly every two months.
The rules:
Six men, every two months, at 40 minutes a coffee, is four hours a month and the strongest social safety net I've ever built.
If a structured group works for you (a running club, a five-a-side team, a Tuesday night poker game, a book club where the men actually read the book), keep going. They function as friend-incubators because they create the regular contact that adult friendships otherwise lack.
If a group is performing as therapy with a fee attached, watch. The good ones graduate you back to one-on-one friendships. The bad ones keep you dependent on the group. Tell the difference by asking: am I leaving here with a man's phone number, or just a workshop slot?
You aren't building a friend network so you don't get lonely. You're building one because, in the second half of your life, the men who know you and accept you across more than one season are the people who remind you who you are.
Audit the list. Keep the ones who showed up. Don't chase the ones who didn't. Build the rotation. Pay for the coffee.
A blunt field guide to the first month after the conversation. Sleep, paperwork, the kids, and the part nobody warns you about.
5 minHow to start the talk you've been rehearsing in the shower for six months. A practical guide to the words, the room, the aftermath.
4 minWhen she ends it and you didn't see it coming. The first 72 hours, the stories you'll tell yourself, and what to actually do.
4 minA self-interrogation guide for the man considering ending his marriage. Not advice. Questions. The hard ones, in order.
5 min