You’re Off the Roster. No One Told You.
Thesis: We manage people like playlists and lineups, keeping those who fit the current mood and shelving the rest until further notice.
Part I: Rotations and Rosters
There was a time when friendship felt infinite.
It wasn't curated.
It wasn't optimized.
It wasn't a performance.
It was messy. Inconvenient. Reliable.
A late-night call. A couch you didn't need to ask to sleep on.
Someone who saw the worst in you and didn't screenshot it.
Now?
Friendship is a closet.
And most of us are just out of season.
We rotate people like outfits.
The ambitious one for when we're building.
The fun one for when we're outside.
The soft one for when we're spiraling.
The connector for when we need a job.
Then, when they no longer match the aesthetic or the energy,
we tuck them away. Folded. Archived. Muted.
No falling out.
Just falling off.
We don't cut people off anymore.
We just stop responding.
No explanation.
No funeral.
Just distance.
They don't call it ghosting anymore.
They call it boundaries.
Part II: Ghosting Dressed as Growth
We've developed a language that lets us abandon people and still feel noble.
"I had to protect my peace."
"I'm just in a different season."
"I'm evolving."
But not every exit is evolution.
Some are just avoidance with a nice font and a therapist on retainer.
We've confused self-preservation with self-importance.
Sometimes we cut people off not because they were dangerous,
but because they were inconvenient.
They reminded us of an era we're trying to escape.
They weren't aligned. They weren't ascending.
So we disappeared and called it healing.
Let's be honest.
The boundaries thing got hijacked.
It went from "I can't be around toxicity" to "I'm not comfortable being around your feelings."
From "protecting your energy" to "ghosting without guilt."
Now, everything is a brand decision.
We talk about cutting people off like it's a rite of passage.
But there's grief on the other side.
Sometimes, the healthy thing is not a new circle.
It's learning how to repair the old one.
Part III: When Friends Become Followers
She used to call you to cry.
Now she watches your stories in silence.
You used to know his secrets.
Now you just know what city he's in.
Friendship turned into observation.
You don't talk anymore. You just updated.
You post. They like. That's the exchange.
We used to share moments.
Now we share content.
This isn't just parasocial fandom.
This is parasocial friendship.
Among people who used to be real.
We became afraid of intimacy but addicted to visibility.
So we let people stay close digitally.
We keep them in the loop, just not in our lives.
It's easier that way.
No mess. No confrontation.
Just the illusion of closeness.
With none of the vulnerabilities that made it real.
And we're all guilty.
We support from afar.
But we don't reach out.
We know how to react.
But we've forgotten how to check in.
Part IV: The Grief of Being Rotated Out
We glamorize cutting people off.
We rarely talk about being the one who got rotated out.
The friend who helped build the dream
but didn't get invited to the launch.
The one who loved without leverage.
The one who was always there until suddenly, they weren't needed.
No text.
No beef.
Just absence.
There's no eulogy for friendship.
No closure.
I just realized that the birthday shoutout didn't come this year.
Just seeing your day one in new photos, with new people,
living a life you're no longer written into.
It stings.
And even if you want to reach out,
you don't want to beg to be remembered.
So you sit in the silence.
And you try not to take it personally.
Even though it is.
Part V: The Ones Who Stayed
In a world where everyone's optimizing for the next season,
staying is radical.
We don't talk enough about the friend who stayed.
The one who didn't match the aesthetic but matched the soul.
The one who had no followers, no connections,
but showed up every time.
That's the real flex.
Not who's in the room.
But who's still in your life when the room empties?
Some people aren't meant to be rotated.
They're meant to be rooted.
Because real friendship isn't loud.
It's not always posted.
It's not built on branding.
It's built in the quiet moments
when nothing is happening, but they're still there.
There's healthy silence in genuine friendship.
Not co-dependence.
Not ghosting.
Just presence.
Even when the algorithm has no use for it.
Part VI: The Loneliness Economy
Avoidance isn't just a trauma response. It's a business model.
We are mass-producing avoidant people.
Not just through childhood trauma, but through design.
Through infrastructure.
Through apps.
Through capitalism.
The less you depend on people,
the more you depend on products.
You don't need a friend to talk to.
You can buy a subscription.
You don't need a partner to feel loved.
You can buy a self-care ritual.
You don't need a neighbor to borrow something from.
You can prime it to your door in 6 hours.
We aren't just lonely.
We're efficiently lonely.
In prehistoric times, avoidance would get you killed.
You needed the tribe.
You needed proximity.
You needed the friction that came with real community.
Now, friction is bad for business.
Talk too long in an Uber, risk a bad rating.
Make a friend uncomfortable, and you're draining.
Need too much, you're toxic.
We've gamified intimacy and flattened nuance.
We want connection without conflict.
And we call that healthy.
However, the market economy only values connection if it doesn't slow anything down.
Real friendship slows things down.
It's inefficient.
It's emotional.
It's inconvenient.
That's why capitalism prefers an avoidant adult.
They self-soothe.
They self-isolate.
They self-medicate.
They self-improve.
They burn out quietly, then pay for recovery.
Avoidant people make great consumers.
They don't ask for help.
They don't organize.
They don't build movements.
They just keep buying.
The alternative?
A gift economy.
Burning Man is one example.
You don't buy anything.
You offer what you have.
You ask for what you need.
No price. No performance. No posts.
You bring a panini press,
I bring the tomatoes.
We eat together.
The gift economy isn't efficient.
It doesn't scale.
It isn't clean.
But that's why it's holy.
You can cry during a car ride.
You can be messy.
You can be a human being, not a brand.
We don't need more networking events.
We need more neighbors.
More borrowed things.
More uncomfortable favors.
More "I got you" and less "Let me know if you need anything."
Maybe the revolution isn't some massive social uprising.
Maybe it's just saying yes when a friend asks for help.
Maybe it's asking your neighbor for the panini press.
One hour of community service a week.
Mandatory.
For every avoidant adult.
Not for punishment.
For resuscitation.
If you made it this far…
Ask yourself:
Who did you rotate out?
Who rotated you out?
Who's still here?
And what kind of economy are you really building your life in?
Because maybe friendship isn't a vibe.
Maybe it's resistance.