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A friend of mine once said something that has stayed with me:

She said, “My husband is my husband. My best friend is my best friend.”

I remember being mildly surprised.

Not because there was anything wrong with what she said, but because another friend in the same conversation had just declared that her husband was her best friend. And we all nodded at that statement because that’s the ideal script, isn’t it? That your life partner should also be your best friend?

I’ve noticed people take an extraordinary sense of pride when they announce it. And so when this other friend said that her husband and best friend were two different people, all of us were taken aback.

Another script that runs in our mind is that our friends should always be available. Or that our family should understand us completely—because if not them, then who? Or that the people who love us should show up exactly the way we would show up for them.

Somewhere along the way, the script doesn’t exactly go according to plan. And that’s where so much of our angst, disappointment, and, in some cases, bitterness comes from.

But as I get older, the more I realize this sense of betrayal doesn’t come from us believing that people are failing us. Nope, that would be too easy. Instead, it comes from the fact that we’re asking one person to do the work of 10.

Read that again.

We are asking one person to do the work of ten.

For a long time, I struggled with this myself because I am someone who has always been available, non-judgmental, and loyal.

I was the one who always picked up the phone if someone wanted to talk. I was the one who would always say yes to dinner. The one who was happy to meet for coffee. The one who answered text messages, joined friends on trips, showed up for birthdays, and spent my free weekends with friends who wanted company.

If someone I cared about was going through something difficult or needed help, I was there. And although I may have gotten a bit irritated when friends repeated the same mistakes, I still listened and empathized.

I functioned under the mode of: Look no further! Roopa is here!

This was my default setting, and I quietly expected the same in return. Not consciously. Just naturally. If I were willing to do it, surely they would be too, right?

Except…many of them didn’t.

Did I go through phases of heartache and a deep sense of betrayal from those whom I expected much more than I got? Sure. In the beginning, of course I did.

But then, things changed.

As I got older, became more patient, and acquired maturity, I started to understand that there are different sides to people. And over the years, I realized that availability and loyalty are not the same thing.

Look, there are some people in my life who are still wonderfully available, like I used to be. I have some family and friend relationships like that, and I value them enormously.

But age and experience have helped me understand that being loyal does not automatically mean being available.

Some of the most loyal people in my life are not particularly available. They’re busy. They have demanding jobs, families, and responsibilities. Lives that don’t always leave room for spontaneous conversations or last-minute plans. But when something truly matters—when I need to talk about something important, when I need honesty instead of reassurance—they’re there. They show up. Maybe not immediately. Maybe not conveniently. But they show up.

And that’s loyalty.

I think a lot of us get hurt because we confuse the two.

I know I did.

We expect the people who are available to also be deeply loyal. We expect the loyal people to be constantly available. And when they aren’t, we feel disappointed. We start keeping score. We start wondering whether they care. We start creating stories about what their behavior means.

Thankfully, I no longer confuse the two.

And oddly enough, it wasn’t the behavior of others that made me rethink this situation. What really impacted me most was the realization that over the years, I too had become a lot like the people I was whining about previously.

Where I am in my life right now, I no longer have the time, energy, or inclination to be everything to everyone. Given the demands of my life, my health, and my spare time, I am ruthless about who gets how much of me.

I no longer feel the need to offer the same level of availability and loyalty to every relationship in my life. Different relationships demand different parts of me, and I am only willing to give what I can spare. I no longer feel the need to be available, or loyal, to all.

This change happened gradually, and it took me a while to see the impact in me. The big AHA moment came when I realized: if I wasn’t at once loyal and available to everyone else the way I used to be, how can I expect and judge those who do the same to me?

Bottom line? We are all trying and doing the best we can, including me.

The mistake we make—the mistake I made—is assuming or hoping that one person can be everything to us. The gift is recognizing that different people love us in different ways.

And when we stop demanding everything from everyone, we often discover that we already have exactly what we need.

And that is more than enough.

~

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