Healing Old Wounds: The Art of Reconnecting

“Friendship is [re]born at the moment when one man says to another: 

‘What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . .’”

— C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Narrative 

My friend Brad and I were inseparable. We met in the first grade, and when we were younger, we did so many things together: played flag football and, later, tackle football for years, went to summer band camp, played video games at arcades, and rode our bikes all over.  As teenagers, we would drive our Oldsmobiles all over the city and go into the Texas Hill Country to test our car’s top speeds (110 mph, for those interested).  His father was an attorney and law professor; my dad was a doctor. Brad wanted to be a doctor and enjoyed speaking with him about opportunities in medicine. We were always eating and hanging out at each other’s houses. It was a friendship built on countless experiences, shared interests, and mutual friends. 

Chris, Gordie and Teddy, Stand By Me (1986), Columbia Pictures

Following high school, we both attended the University of Texas. We lived in the same dorm but on separate floors. My high school English teacher warned us not to room with our friends in college—it wouldn’t end well. We were both busy with studies: Brad was on the pre-med path, and I majored in business. We didn’t see each other much, as I was involved in politics, and pre-med is very demanding. Still, on occasional weekends, we would travel back home to San Antonio and hang out on other weekends.  

In our sophomore year, I needed to change to a smaller university. I loved UT and had many friends, but something felt off. In late 1987, without telling anyone, I started applying to other schools. I was accepted into Southern Methodist University (SMU) in Dallas in early December. I told Brad I was leaving UT, and he seemed genuinely happy for me—he is that kind of man. However, neither of us realized at that moment that our relationship would go on hiatus – for several decades. 

Emotional Toll

The first two years at university are exciting and filled with possibilities. In your junior and senior years, classes are getting more challenging, and you start focusing on internships, career decisions, and graduate school. Brad and I rarely spoke during these years. It wasn’t that anything happened between us; we were in unique places in our lives, with different academic and career focuses. After we finished college, Brad was accepted into a medical school in Dallas. He lived about 10 minutes from where I did and even tried to reach out to me. I did not answer his calls or reach out to him. I was interning at a law firm and had applied to several law schools. However, the internship did not inspire me to be a lawyer, and I was encouraged to apply to an international business school with an opportunity to study in Europe. 

These decisions were stressful, and I felt no want to share the experience with anyone until I figured it out. Fast-forward to 1996, when Brad was a surgeon in Houston, and I was living and working in Boston. I traveled to Houston for business and asked Brad if he would like to meet for lunch. During the meal, we got caught up. The conversation was mostly cordial, but ego got the better of us. I will pause and mention that our fathers were brilliant, successful, and driven men. Brad and I had formidable shoes to fill. I say this because subtle one-upmanship crept in as we discussed our careers. The conversation was not unpleasant or escalating, but one could feel the beginnings of tension from both of us. Perhaps that was inevitable; we are both driven by nature. Still, I left the restaurant feeling deflated, resigned to the fact that the friendship, if not over, would never be the same. We did not speak for the next 27 years. 

Resolution

In 2022, my father passed away after a long fight with Parkinson’s Disease. I was devastated, as we were very close. For some reason, maybe it was because Brad was a surgeon; I texted him to share the news. He responded immediately with condolences and mentioned how my dad had inspired him to become a physician. He also said that his father was not in good health either.  A few months later, he texted to mention his father had died. Our exchanges were filled with sorrow and support, and we shared updates on our family lives and careers. He congratulated me on publishing my first book. 

Here is a text message we shared:

My text: 

Hi Brad, I hope you are having a good week. 

I thought about you earlier today when I heard the REM song South Central Rain (1984). It is a melancholy song with the refrain “I’m sorry.”

It reminded me of something that has been bothering me for too many years.

Brad, I owe you an apology. 

I am sorry for not being a better friend to you after I left UT. I did not follow through and continue to support our friendship.

Please forgive me.

You have always been a great friend; we share an incredible history.

I am thankful we have supported each other through one of the most challenging years of our lives [the loss of our fathers].

It would be great to get together sometime.

Brad’s response: 

You never need to apologize. 

Our life paths have taken us away.  

Every time I hear that song, I think of you as well. 

I would love to meet up at some point and reconnect. 

We will let each other know when you are in Texas or the next time I am in New York. 

You will always be a true friend. 

Together, we achieved a consequential breakthrough. 

Relevance

I will not tell you that the above outcome will be the case with all relationships in a similar situation to mine, nor will I advocate a one-size-fits-all solution, for relationships are complex, nuanced, and multifaceted. Civility requires us to have the courage to accept that healing relationships require the efforts of all parties involved. You should be proactive and take the initiative to start the process. Just make sure you’re ready to make peace with the outcome.