A Letter to My Temporary Friend

Have you ever thought about someone from your past and wondered if they still remember you? I don’t mean the people who are still around, who stuck by you through everything. I mean the ones who were there for a moment - a season, a show, a semester - and then life pulled you both in different directions.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about those people. The ones who showed up when I couldn’t. The ones who tried to be close to me, even when I didn’t know how to let them. And this? This is for them. This is for you - my temporary friend.

If we met in high school, I need you to know something. I don’t remember much. Not because it wasn’t important, not because you weren’t important, but because I was in survival mode. My brain was doing everything it could to keep me safe, and that meant numbing, forgetting, dissociating. Trauma has a funny way of stealing memories while leaving behind only fragments.

But here’s what I do remember: I remember laughing. I remember you making me feel, even just for a second, like I wasn’t drowning. Maybe we sat next to each other in class, maybe we joked in the hallways, maybe we hung out at lunch - I can’t quite piece it all together. But I remember you. Your lightness. Your kindness.

And I want to thank you for that. For being a bright spot in a dark time, even if I couldn’t say it then. You helped me more than you know.

Maybe we became friends in college. Maybe we bonded over classes or theatre or late-night talks about big dreams. But I have to admit something - I wasn’t really there. Oh, I was present, sure. Driven, ambitious, constantly chasing something bigger. But all of that chasing? It was my way of running away.

I thought if I could just succeed, just make it, then all the pain I’d carried from childhood would somehow disappear. I believed that if I stayed busy enough, focused enough, I wouldn’t have to face what was inside me.

And because of that, I wasn’t the friend you deserved. I’m sorry. I couldn’t give you the support, the attention, the realness you might’ve needed. I was so wrapped up in proving myself, in escaping, that I didn’t know how to just be with someone.

But you still showed up. You still tried. And for that, I’m grateful beyond words.

Then there were the shows. Oh, the shows. If you’ve ever done theatre, you know how quickly people can become like family. You rehearse together, perform together, live in each other’s pockets for weeks or months. And then - poof - the show ends, and everyone scatters.

Maybe we did a show together, and I wanted to be your friend so badly. I watched you, admired you, maybe even envied how freely you lived. I wanted that. I wanted you in my life more permanently. But fear? Fear had a grip on me.

Fear told me I wasn’t enough. Fear told me you wouldn’t really want me if you knew all the parts I was hiding. Fear made me stay on the surface, smile and laugh and connect just enough to get by.

I’m sorry I wasn’t braver. I’m sorry I didn’t let you in.

Getting sober changed everything. Sobriety gave me the one thing I’d been missing all those years: clarity. Suddenly, I could see - really see - the people who had been around me, the ones who had tried, the ones who cared.

And with that clarity came remorse.

I started to remember faces, moments, conversations where I wasn’t fully there. Where I chose distance over vulnerability. Where I thought I was protecting myself, but in reality, I was just shutting people out.

I think about you now, often. I wonder where you are, how you’re doing, if you ever think of me. I wonder if you knew how much I appreciated you, even if I couldn’t show it. And I hope - I hope - that in some way, your life has been filled with people who could give you what I couldn’t.

So this is my letter to you, my temporary friend.

Thank you.

Thank you for seeing something in me worth being close to, even when I couldn’t see it myself.

Thank you for your patience, your light, your laughter. For the way you made my world a little softer, a little kinder, in a time when I didn’t know how to ask for that.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t show up for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t present, wasn’t honest, wasn’t able to receive the gift of your friendship.

But please know this: you mattered. You mattered then, and you still matter now. You’re a part of my story, a part of what shaped me into who I am today - a better friend, a more present father, a coach who helps others show up fully because I know what it feels like to not.

I think of you every time I hold space for someone else. Every time I catch myself really listening. Every time I put down my fear and choose connection.

You were never just a temporary friend. You were part of my becoming.

If you’ve read this far, maybe you have a temporary friend, too. Someone who passed through your life and left a mark. Someone you didn’t get to thank, or didn’t get to hold onto, but who mattered deeply.

Maybe today is the day you reach out. Maybe today is just about honoring them in your heart. Either way, don’t underestimate the power of those fleeting connections. Sometimes, they’re the ones that carry us the furthest.

And if you’ve ever felt like you were someone’s temporary friend? I hope you know - you mattered. More than you may ever know.