Lately, I’ve been feeling like the odd one out in my own life.
I’m in my 40s, single, child-free—and many of my closest friends are deep in the thick of raising young kids. Their days are filled with school drop-offs, soccer practice, birthday parties, and endless negotiations over screen time. Mine… are not.
Don’t get me wrong—I love their kids. I genuinely do. I’ve celebrated their births, watched them grow, and memorized more names from Paw Patrol than I care to admit. I’m the “cool auntie” who shows up with gifts, plays silly games, and leaves before bedtime meltdowns. But no matter how much I love them, it doesn’t change the fact that something has shifted between my friends and me. And sometimes, it feels like the distance is growing.
I’ve learned to brace myself for the cancellations—dinners rescheduled, plans postponed indefinitely, phone calls cut short by “Gotta go, someone just fell off the couch.” I get it. Kids come first. They should. But when it happens over and over, it’s hard not to feel like a supporting character in someone else’s movie.
Conversations have changed too. I used to be able to talk with my friends for hours about everything: our dreams, dating, careers, random late-night thoughts. Now, it’s diapers, preschools, tantrums, and milestone updates. Important things, yes—but things I can’t always contribute to. I try to nod along, ask questions, stay interested. But sometimes, I catch myself fading into the background, unsure of where I fit.
It’s not jealousy exactly. I don’t feel envious of their lives—I just miss feeling connected. I miss when we were on more parallel paths, when we had time and energy for each other in a different way. Now, I leave some hangouts feeling invisible. Or worse, like my life is somehow “less than” because it doesn’t include a partner or a baby monitor.
The loneliness hits differently in this season. It’s not just about not having a romantic partner—it’s the slow, quiet grief of friendships shifting in ways no one talks about. And as much as I try to be understanding and patient, there are days when I wish someone would ask about me—about my latest project, the book I just read, or the weird date I went on. I wish I didn’t feel like I had to justify that my life is still full, even if it looks different from theirs.
I know that friendship has seasons, and this one is just more complicated. I still love these women deeply. I admire the mothers they’ve become. I want to be there for them, just as they’ve been there for me. But I also need space to feel what I’m feeling—left out, lonely, and sometimes quietly grieving a kind of connection that’s hard to recreate when our lives have grown in such different directions.
So if you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like the single outlier among your mom-friends, I see you. You’re not weird or selfish or forgotten. You’re navigating a tricky, tender in-between space that deserves grace, honesty, and a whole lot of compassion.
And if you’re a friend with kids? We still need you. We still want to be invited—even if we might say no. We still want to feel seen, asked about, included. We know your world is full, and we love being a part of it. Just don’t forget—we have stories too.