Divided Hearts
I have often wrestled with the tension between friendships and relationships, and if I am honest, it hasn’t always been pretty. In my early twenties, friendships were everything to me. They were my constant, my safety net, my family outside of family. I had friends who knew me better than anyone else did, who had seen me cry on the kitchen floor at 2am, who sat with me through heartbreaks, who reminded me of my worth when I forgot it myself. Those women became my home when I didn’t feel like I had one elsewhere. For years, I believed that loyalty was proof they should always come first, no matter what man walked into my life. After all, men had come and gone, often leaving only a trail of disappointment behind them. My girls stayed. Surely that had to count for more than any passing romantic love.
But then relationships came along, the kind that weren’t casual or fleeting, the kind that made me pause and wonder what building a future with someone might look like. And that’s when the lines began to blur. I remember one of my closest friends once telling me that she felt left behind when I started dating. She said she didn’t get my full attention anymore, and I could see the truth in her eyes even before she said it aloud. I hadn’t meant to push her aside, but naturally, my focus had shifted. On the other side, I’ve also been told by a man I was with that he felt second place to my friendships, as though he were competing for space in my life with women who had known me longer. Both conversations hurt, and both revealed something important, that balance is never easy.
One moment that stands out was when I had planned a weekend away with my closest girlfriends to Estelle Manor, a mini-retreat we’d all been excited for. The Uber’s were booked, the group chat was buzzing, and we’d been talking about it for weeks. Then, just days before, something difficult happened in a partner’s family, and he wanted me by his side. I remember staring at my phone, feeling torn. If I went away with my friends, I’d be absent when he needed me. If I cancelled, I’d be letting down women who had been my bedrock long before he arrived. I chose to stay, and though it stung, it taught me that sometimes loving well means disappointing others. To my relief, my friends understood, even if they teased me. That moment showed me that real friendships can bend without breaking when your priorities shift.
Another time, during exam season, I’d set aside evenings to study with someone I was dating. We’d agreed to keep each other disciplined. But then a close friend rang me in tears, asking me to come over. My heart knew she needed me, but my mind knew I’d be breaking a promise. I went anyway, stayed later than I should have, and then returned home to tension. In that moment, I realised how stretched I was, trying to give everything to everyone. I poured myself out so thinly that no one felt they had the best of me. It was painful, but it made me face the truth: balance isn’t about reacting to whoever shouts loudest, but about intentionally choosing where your presence is most needed.
As a Christian, I’ve always carried a sense of order about where priorities should lie. Husband first, children second, family third, friendships last. It’s what I’ve read, what I’ve been taught, and what deep down I believe reflects God’s design for stability and unity. But in practice, it hasn’t always felt so straightforward. Because when you’re single, friends aren’t “last” on any list, they’re your lifeline. They’re the people who notice if you don’t come home one night, who celebrate your successes louder than anyone else, who step into roles no man is filling. They have your heart first, and it can feel disloyal to suddenly give that place of honour to someone who’s only just arrived.
The shift, though, comes with understanding the difference between companionship and covenant. Friendships are sacred, but relationships, especially ones moving towards marriage, require a different kind of sacrifice. Scripture says the two shall become one flesh, and that doesn’t happen by giving scraps of attention after you’ve already poured yourself out elsewhere. It happens when someone becomes your priority, when you invest your time and your heart in building something that will last. And that, inevitably, means your friendships take on a different rhythm. They don’t disappear, but they mature. Instead of late-night phone calls every day, you might see each other once a week. Instead of knowing every detail in real-time, you learn to give one another space and trust that the bond isn’t weakening, it’s deepening in a quieter way.
Of course, there’s grief in that. I’ve cried over friendships that faded as life moved forward. I’ve missed the seasons when we were inseparable, when every weekend was spent together, when they were my first call and not my second or third. I’ve also had the sting of hearing, “It feels like you only see me when he’s not around,” from a friend, and later hearing, “I feel like you spend more emotional energy on your friends than on me,” from someone I was with. Those words cut deep, but they forced me to grow. I learnt that honesty is everything. I had to explain my heart to both sides, to reassure my friends that their place in my life hadn’t diminished, and to reassure my partner that he wasn’t in competition with them. Those conversations weren’t easy, but they built trust where resentment might have grown.
I think the real question isn’t “Who comes first?” but “How do I love each person rightly, in the role they’ve been given in my life?” A partner deserves priority because that relationship is building a life. Friends deserve loyalty, even if the form of that loyalty evolves. And above all, God deserves my surrender, because without His wisdom and guidance, I will always find myself caught between guilt and obligation rather than peace and order.
When I look ahead, I don’t see friendships diminishing in importance. I see them transforming. I want to be the kind of woman who maintains her friendships with grace, who still makes time for coffee dates and birthday dinners, who shows up when it matters most, even if it isn’t as often as before. And I want to be the kind of wife who gives her husband the best of herself, not the weary leftovers. That balance is hard, yes, but it is possible when you stop seeing it as a competition and start seeing it as a reordering.
So to my friends, I will always say: you had my heart first, and I am grateful for that. You shaped me, you taught me loyalty, you held me when I could not hold myself. But to my future husband, I will say: you will have my heart last, and you will have it fully. That isn’t betrayal to my friends, it is honouring the natural order God designed. And to myself, I remind daily: don’t let guilt or nostalgia distort the beauty of different seasons. Each has its place, each has its purpose, and none is wasted.
The challenge of balancing friendships and relationships isn’t about choosing one over the other; it’s about growing into the kind of woman who can hold both with wisdom. I don’t get it right all the time. Sometimes I lean too heavily on friends, sometimes I over-prioritise a relationship. But I am learning, and I believe the learning itself is part of the journey God has given me. One day, when I look back, I don’t want to remember a constant tug-of-war. I want to remember that I loved well, that I honoured both my friendships and my relationship, and that I trusted God to show me where to place each one. That, I think, is where peace lies.
