When a Friendship Starts to Feel Like Work

Ever love someone who drains the life out of you without meaning to?

Yeah… me too.

You show up, you listen, you care, but somewhere between the tears, the rants, and the same story on repeat, you start realizing you’re not in a friendship anymore… you’re in an emotional full-time job you never applied for.

You still love them, but dang, you miss fun. You miss laughing until your cheeks hurt, running errands together, sharing ideas, dreaming big. Instead, every hangout feels like walking into another episode of the same drama, and you already know how it ends.

So here’s the truth I’m learning: you can love your friend and love your peace.

You can care about someone and crave quiet.

And you don’t have to choose between being kind and being sane.

Sometimes friendship needs a gentle reboot, not to walk away, but to breathe again. To laugh again. To remember why you liked each other in the first place.

So if your friendship has started feeling like work, try this:

Look them in the eye and say, “Hey, I love you, but I miss us. Let’s talk about something that makes us smile for once.”

Because friendship isn’t supposed to feel like carrying a boulder uphill.

It’s supposed to feel like sunlight, steady, warm, and real.💛

A Note from Caring with Karen

At Caring with Karen, I believe compassion and boundaries can coexist. Real care isn’t about fixing everyone, it’s about staying whole enough to keep showing up with love.

If you’ve ever needed to hit “reset” on a friendship, you’re not alone. Sometimes peace isn’t distance, it’s clarity.

Seeing Beyond the Pain

A reflection by Karen Sanderson, LPN

Not long ago, I cared for a young woman recovering from a serious accident. She had endured multiple injuries and surgeries, and her mother sat quietly at her bedside, exhausted, protective, andfilled with the kind of worry only a parent can know.

During report, I was told the patient could be “demanding.” She wanted her medications on time, to the minute, and often grew frustrated when that didn’t happen. But as I prepared to meet her, I reminded myself that every behavior tells a story, and that sometimes, what looks like anger is really fear, pain, or loss of control.

When I entered her room, she was in tears. She felt unseen, unheard, and powerless. Instead of reacting, I slowed down. I explained what I was doing, gave her choices, and let her know I was listening. That small shift — giving her control where she had none — changed everything. Her tone softened, her anxiety eased, and her pain seemed a little lighter.

I cared for her again the next day. During my shift, I changed the dressing on her external fixation pins, the first change since surgery. She had already received her routine pain medication, but I saw genuine pain on her face as I worked. Every time I accidentally bumped the metal frame, she winced and cried. So I administered a breakthrough pain medication that had been ordered for that exact reason, to relieve severe pain beyond her regular dose.

When the next nurse came on, she was frustrated. She said,“Now she’ll expect those between her routine doses, since you told her she can have them.

” I explained that the medication was given because she truly needed it — not because she asked for it, but because she deserved relief during a painful procedure.

That moment stayed with me. Too often, we in healthcare forget that patients aren’t trying to make our jobs harder — they’re trying to survive an experience they never asked for. When we let frustration or convenience decide our care, we lose sight of what nursing really is: compassion in action.

Empathy doesn’t create more work, it creates trust. And trust heals.

Our patients are more than their behaviors. Behind every sigh, every demand, every tear, there’s fear, exhaustion, and sometimes trauma too deep to put into words. We are their safety net in the storm.

I’ll never apologize for putting my patient’s needs first. Because real nursing isn’t about getting through the shift, it’s about showing up for the human being in the bed.