The strange evolution of friendship

By Glen Maylone

Friendship in itself is strange and wonderful.

But when you step back and look at it with open, honest, and—yes—aging eyes, it becomes even more clear:

it is wonderful, shifting, unpredictable, and sometimes, if we’re being honest, a little bit painful.

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I found myself thinking about all of this while I was back in my hometown this week.

These days, when I’m there, most of my time goes straight to my mom and dad. The older I get, the more sacred those ever-shortening hours feel.

But there are still a few people—just a few—that I genuinely want to see.

I’m not in the hometown often, and when I am, time is precious.

Yet there are certain people I truly enjoy spending time with.

People whose presence feels like slipping into a familiar old jacket.

So, I went to breakfast with an old friend on Monday.

He invited me to a small mom-and-pop place along the Mississippi River—an old favorite.

Lured me in with: “I’ll even pay.”

We sat down, ordered coffee, and within minutes it felt like we’d talked just yesterday. Months, sometimes years, melt away with certain people.

Conversation flows.

Humor returns like a muscle memory.

There’s no awkwardness. No strain.

Just… ease.

Before you know it, the waitress has come by twice and we still haven’t looked at the menu, too busy catching up.

Sure, I keep up with plenty of people online—messages, comments, quick check-ins—but that is not the same as being in the same room with someone.

Not really.

Not at all sometimes.

After breakfast, on the drive back to my mom’s house, something settled in my mind:

Why does time with some people leave me feeling uplifted—

and time with others leave me drained?

That question sat with me all day.

I started reflecting on how friendships evolve, and how my understanding of friendship has changed over the years.

When we’re young, everyone we know is a friend.

The kid we sit next to in class. Friend.

The person we talk to twice in the office. Friend.

The guy we shared two beers with at a party. Friend.

Dude who delivers us pizza, Friend.

It’s almost childish how wide that circle used to be.

But life has a way of testing the word "friend".

You walk through hard times.

Loss.

Change.

Moves.

Divorces.

Deaths.

Successes that some people quietly resent.

Failures some folks secretly celebrate.

You begin to see—not out of bitterness but out of clarity—

who shows up,

who disappears,

and who vanishes the second you’re no longer convenient.

Some relationships fade.

Some calcify into nothing but nostalgia.

Some were never friendships at all—just proximity and good timing.

And some people you’ve known for thirty years?

You realize you don’t actually know them at all anymore.

So how do we tell the difference?

What separates a friend from an acquaintance from a colleague?

Those lines shift over time.

People change.

We change.

Our lives reshape themselves whether we want them to or not.

For me, friendship has become something deeper.

Something smaller.

Something far more intentional.

And the older I get, the more I find myself asking different questions:

Would I get out of bed at 2 a.m. to help them?

And would they do the same for me?

Do I feel emotionally safe with them today—

not just comfortable with who we were decades ago?

When I leave their presence, do I feel lighter… or emptied?

Do I still love who they’ve become—

and do they still love who I’ve become?

These aren’t dramatic questions—they’re honest ones.

And using the word love matters.

Because truly caring for someone is love, period.

Friendship used to be about shared fun.

Now it’s about shared life.

And here’s the quiet truth no one tells you about getting older:

As your years get shorter, your circle gets smaller—

not out of bitterness, but out of wisdom.

You stop collecting people.

You stop entertaining emotional tourists, who stop by then leave with no real investment.

You stop calling everyone a friend just because you once shared a moment.

Your time becomes precious.

Your peace becomes priceless.

And the people you give access to become fewer,

but infinitely more meaningful.

So, when I left breakfast that morning, I felt uplifted.

Alive.

At ease.

And I couldn’t help comparing that feeling to others—people I’ve known for decades—who leave me tired, irritated, or vaguely disappointed.

Not because they’re bad people, but because the connection is no longer real.

We’re tied only by memory, not by life.

Maybe that’s the strange evolution of friendship:

It narrows.

It deepens.

It strengthens for a few…

and dissolves quietly for the rest.

And maybe that’s not a tragedy.

Maybe that’s adulthood’s natural progression.

Of course, friendships—like all relationships—take nurturing, time, and presence.

But some shine through and are, for lack of a better description, low maintenance.

Natural.

Easy.

Free flowing.

You click with them because the connection is real.

And yes—some friendships come back to life.

I have old acquaintances who fit me better as the people we are today than we ever could have decades ago.

Growth changes the shape of connection. Sometimes in beautiful ways.

Because in the end, the real miracle of getting older is discovering the handful of people whose presence feels like peace.

The ones you don’t have to perform for.

The ones who fit into your life without friction.

The ones who matter—not because of who you were,

but because of who you are now.

If you have even one friend like that… you’re already blessed.

Cherish them.

To my friends—

I wrote this out thinking how truly blessed I am.

Friends, I hope you read this, you know exactly who you are!

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