The Honest Struggle of Losing Friends to Parenthood

A guide from someone who lost all their friends and knows exactly what you should do — but can't follow their own advice.

Honestly? I don't even want to follow it.

Masha. Then Vika. Then Natasha. Then Alena. Then Polina. Then Varya.

Then no one.

I've always had incredible friendships with women. Not romance — actual friendship. The kind where you can call at 3 AM, where you laugh until you cry at the dumbest jokes, where someone knows everything about you and sticks around anyway. We spent tons of time together, and it was fucking amazing.

Then, one by one, they found their guys, their families, their kids — and they were gone. Not out of spite. That's just how life works.

Only Katya stayed. Probably because we never really "hung out" — we met at work, the friendship grew out of work, and we've always had identical ways of thinking. When we met, she was already in a relationship. Maybe that's why it worked — we never built our friendship on spending time together.

Now I'm in Spain, they're all in Russia. They probably don't read my new blog — I shut down the old one ages ago, deleted the account. So I'll tell the truth: every time they call to "reminisce about the old days," it hurts. I know it's not their fault. I know it's my problem. But I can't help how I feel.

As a former trainer and coach, I know a lot about how things should be done. In many ways, I've got my shit together. But I haven't reached enlightenment — there are things that still get to me, even when rationally they shouldn't.

So this isn't a lecture from on high. It's the perspective of someone who's been on both sides: who lost friends to parenthood, and who knows how to deal with it. Theoretically knows. How it actually works out for you — I get it, I'm in the same boat.

What happened to them

Imagine you're taking finals, but you didn't show up to class all semester. Every subject feels like day one. Now add some spice:

• finals last not a month, but a year;
• there's an exam every day, and you have to study through the night;
• there are no notes or cheat sheets;
• and your textbooks are screaming at you like you're murdering them;
• oh, and at the start of finals, you have to push all your textbooks out through your crotch.

Seriously though, a first-time mother has just been through massive trauma. For several days she can't sit down, everything's bleeding, she doesn't always have control of her bladder. This isn't the person you're used to seeing on Instagram, on video calls, or at parties. And it's not just you — she's in shock too. Nobody's ready for this.

And there's a newborn right next to her. If breastfeeding is involved, that's a skill you have to learn, and it's painful. The baby might get sick, and that's terrifying. The baby doesn't know the difference between day and night, so you're on duty 24/7.

The family comes home from the hospital, and it begins: the baby screams, won't sleep, won't eat, screams again, poops in every direction, and screams some more. Strange spots appear on their skin. You're constantly afraid of breaking this tiny human. You walk around holding them so they'll fall asleep. When you're not used to it, all of this is exhausting and often scary as hell.

I watched this from the sidelines — Natasha now has three, the others have one or two. And I'm only now starting to understand what they went through. When you're childless and you've been "abandoned," it's easy to feel hurt. What's harder is trying to understand.

How they're feeling

Every parent feels differently, but here's a general picture:

Constant exhaustion from irregular sleep.

Not "I went to bed late" tired, but "I haven't slept properly in three months" tired. These are different universes.

Physical exhaustion.

Carry, change, carry, change, carry, change — for hours. Try walking around with an eleven-pound dumbbell in your arms for just one hour — you'll get the idea.

Anxiety about the baby.

Something's constantly happening with them, usually accompanied by screaming. And often there's nothing you can do about it. Imagine your phone starts blaring at full volume, you can't turn it off, you can't throw it away. That's what it's like, except it's not a phone — it's a living human being you're responsible for.

Feelings of anger and helplessness.

A baby can scream bloody murder for three hours straight, and nothing the parents do helps. You start getting mad at yourself for being a bad parent; at the baby; at the world. Then they fall asleep for an hour. Then they wake up — and it's back to carry, change, carry, change.

Feeling trapped.

You can't pause a baby. You can't say: "Baby, let's table this screaming discussion until Monday — have a great weekend!" When someone's been screaming at you for three or four days straight, you start thinking this is what the rest of your life looks like.

Sense of loss.

While this miracle is screaming and pooping everywhere, your friends are running marathons, launching startups, moving to Spain, and breathing freedom. Meanwhile, you've got baby poop on your forearms, your neck, and your forehead — and the overwhelming feeling that this is going to last forever.

Your friends are having a really hard time right now. Not because they don't love their baby, and not because they didn't want one. It's just that a baby after birth is incredibly exhausting, and no amount of money changes that.

What not to do

Imagine your friends were in a car accident, broke every bone in their arms and legs, and you're visiting them in the hospital. The only things they can move are their tongue and lips. In this situation, you wouldn't:

• invite them to play soccer, take a salsa class, or go hiking;
• blame them for anything;
• lecture them.

You'd bring them some soup, stick a straw in their mouth, and let them rest.

It's a similar situation with new parents. And yes, I've screwed up on many of these points — that's how I know what I'm talking about:

Don't drag them to parties, loud gatherings, road trips, or outings.

They want to go, believe me. More than anything in the world, they want to get dressed up, grab a coffee to go, and get wasted at your favorite bar. But they can't right now. I didn't understand this for a long time and got offended when they said no. I was wrong.

Don't give them advice.

They're completely exhausted by well-meaning advice from every corner of the hospital, their parents, and random strangers with opinions. They've already read everything they need to read about parenting. They know how to take care of their baby. They're just having a really hard time, and your advice won't fix that.

Don't compare them to anyone or anything.

"Well, my aunt..." "That influencer posted right after giving birth..." "My mom went back to work the day after she had me." This doesn't help. Your friends aren't your aunt — they have their own circumstances. And comparisons are infuriating. To them it sounds like: "If you can't handle this as well as that influencer, you're weak."

Don't draw conclusions based on the first few months.

Your friends might completely disappear during this time. They might stop texting you. They might become irritable or withdrawn. This is temporary. It will pass.

Don't tell them "this is temporary, it will pass."

When you say that, you're dismissing their current suffering. And it's very real. Your friends are suffering right now, and the idea that the suffering will someday end feels impossible. I know because I did this myself — and watched it not work.

Don't take offense if they say something harsh or snappy.

Chances are your friends have been getting thirty minutes of sleep max for three days straight. You'd be lashing out at people too. I used to take offense. And partly lost people because of it.

If someone starts crying during a conversation, don't immediately jump up to solve the problem.

Just hug them and stroke their hair. Being a first-time parent is hard, and there's nothing you can do about it. Just be there.

Don't try to cheer up your friends with motivational stories about influencers who summited Everest with their babies.

That works about as well as "just don't be sad" as a treatment for depression.

Don't make comments about their body.

Actually, don't do this to anyone ever, but especially not to friends with kids. Trust me, they already know.

About those who disappear

Gone without a trace

There's another category — people who vanish completely. Yesterday you were chatting about everything, meeting up for tea and gossip, and today — silence. Not a word.

This works both ways.

From the parents' side: they're not disappearing because they don't need you anymore. They're disappearing because they physically don't have the energy even for a text message. It's 3 AM, the baby finally fell asleep, their brain is mush — and the thought "I should write back" drowns in exhaustion. Day after day. Week after week. And then it feels awkward: so much time has passed, how do you even explain the silence?

In this silence, a new mom starts thinking nobody finds her interesting anymore. That her friends have forgotten her. That she's been written off. After giving birth, we're all a bit raw — hurt feelings get magnified, and a friend's silence reads like a verdict.

From the childless side: we disappear too. I'm like that myself — I go MIA even though I have no kids, no parental leave. Just my own demons the size of a small horse.

The mechanism is the same: first it's "I don't want to bother them, they have a baby." Then "they probably don't have time for me right now." Then "so much time has passed, it's awkward to reach out." And there you are, silent out of consideration, while they're silent out of exhaustion, and both sides are convinced the other has lost interest.

And everyone feels terrible.

What to do about it

If you're the childless friend:

Don't disappear. Send messages — even if they don't reply right away. A quick "thinking of you" is better than silence. Don't wait for them to reach out first — they genuinely don't have the bandwidth. Your message might be their only contact with the outside world that day.

Invite them for coffee — even if they say no. Join them on walks in the park — that's often the only format that works for them. Get to know the newest member of their family.

And yeah, I only follow this advice half the time myself. I know what I should do — I just don't always do it. But at least I try.

If you're the new parent:

Don't read minds. When friends go quiet, it's almost never "I don't need you anymore" — it's "I'm afraid of bothering you." They don't know when it's okay to call, whether a text notification will wake the baby, whether you'll be annoyed by the interruption.

If you have the energy — reach out first. Even a one-minute voice message. Even a meme. Any signal that you're alive and happy to hear from them — even if you don't have the energy to actually talk right now.

If you're a chronic disappearer like me:

Hey. I'm right here too, in this awkward silence.

We both know we should reach out. That nothing bad will happen. That our friends will probably be happy to hear from us. But somehow we don't.

Want to try together? Right now — one message to someone you've been thinking about but couldn't bring yourself to contact. Doesn't have to be long. "Hey, it's been a while, was thinking about you" — that's enough.

I'll try if you try.

What to do

If you want to show your friends you care, here are some options:

Ask how they're doing and how they're feeling.

Don't dish out advice, just ask how they're doing. In this situation, people need someone to listen and show empathy. And yes, you'll hear about poop and colic — listen, sympathize, and don't give advice. If they ask about you — share, then bring it back to them.

Send funny pictures, memes, and jokes.

This shows them they matter to you. It's a small thing that costs nothing but means a lot.

If you can cook — make a chicken pot pie or a casserole and offer to bring it over.

In exactly that order: make it first, then offer to deliver it with something like "We made this, want us to bring it by?" Parents don't have the energy to cook or keep up with the house right now, so a ready-made meal in the fridge is a lifesaver. If the dish needs sour cream or a side, bring that too — so they don't have to make an extra trip to the store.

If you do it the other way around — it might not work. You ask: "Want me to make you something...?" — and your friends, not wanting to put you out, will say no.

Ask what else you can help with.

For example, what to pick up, where to run an errand, what to grab. Maybe they need someone to hit the farmer's market for vegetables or bring over some bottled water. Specific help beats a vague "let me know if you need anything."

If you're close enough, you can offer to watch the baby for a while.

But this depends on how close you are. Basically, if you're comfortable changing clothes in front of each other and holding each other's hair back over the toilet, you're good. But if you've always hung out looking put-together, your presence in their home might create more stress than relief.

For those on the other side

This section is for people like me. For those who got "left behind."

When your close friends disappear into family life one after another while you stay put, it hurts. Rationally you understand: they didn't betray you, they're just living their lives. But emotionally — the feeling of being abandoned doesn't go away.

Here's what I've figured out over the years:

It's not about you.

They weren't choosing between you and family. They just went where life took them. In their shoes, you'd probably do the same thing.

Friendship doesn't have to last forever.

We grew up with the idea that real friendship is forever. But people change, circumstances change, and sometimes paths diverge. That doesn't mean the friendship wasn't real. It was real then.

Those "remember when" calls are their way of saying you mattered.

Even if those calls hurt you. They're not calling to make you feel bad — they're calling because they miss that time. Just like you do.

It's okay to grieve.

You don't have to be strong and rational 24/7. Losing a close friendship is a loss. And it's normal to mourn it.

Look for new people, but not as replacements.

New friends won't replace old ones. They'll be different. And that's okay too.

I still haven't fully dealt with this. As a former coach, I know all the right words. But knowing and feeling are different things. I haven't reached enlightenment.

Why it worked with Katya

Out of all my friends, only Katya stayed. I thought about it for a long time — why?

We met at work. When we met, she was already in a relationship. We never "hung out" in the traditional sense — didn't go to bars together, didn't vacation together, didn't spend weekends together.

Our friendship was built on something else: identical ways of thinking. We see the world the same way, analyze situations the same way, joke the same way. We don't need to spend time together to stay close — a monthly phone call where we catch up in thirty minutes is enough to last us a year.

Maybe that's the secret: a friendship that doesn't depend on spending time together survives when time becomes scarce. A friendship built on "hanging out" dies when hanging out is no longer possible.

I don't know if this is a universal formula or not. But this is what worked for me.

What happens next

Right now it might feel like all bridges are burned and your close friends are forever buried in baby poop. But this is temporary.

In about three months your friends will post photos from the park, in six months they'll be living a full life again, and in a year they'll be battle-hardened masters of productivity.

But I won't lie to you: your interests might drift apart. Your friends have a lot less free time now, and while you used to spend entire weekends going wild, now they'll be going out strategically and strictly by schedule. Binge-watching used to be an option — now it's literally a choice between sleep and a show.

You'll probably grow apart. That's normal, even if it hurts. Your friends have these new activities that you don't quite understand yet. They have a new social circle of other parents — people who get each other and support each other. And you're left on the outside.

The important thing is not to part on bad terms. Not because "what if you have kids someday too" — maybe you won't. But because resentment eats away at the person holding onto it. I know what I'm talking about.

The nature of friendship is that it changes along with us. Sometimes people drift apart forever. Sometimes just for a while. Sometimes they find a new form of relationship that works in new circumstances.

Masha, Vika, Natasha, Alena, Polina, Varya — if you're reading this by chance: I'm not angry. You're welcome to be angry at me. I just feel sad sometimes, and it hurts. But I understand.

Don't lose touch,

bake a cheesecake,

hug your friends —

while they're still around.

And if they're already far away — hug yourself. You deserve kindness too.