Parenting
During my twenties and early thirties, I frequently found myself forming intense friendships with women who turned out to be just as unsuitable as the partners I dated. The pattern was predictable: I would meet someone new and exciting, feel a rush of enthusiasm for our mutual interests, and quickly become inseparable. However, I often mistook this intensity for genuine closeness, labeling it as “best friendship” before any real connection could take root.
I tended to overshare too early, eager to offer supportive words that didn’t match the brief history we had together. I would feel a sense of importance when she reached out during tough times, which, considering how little we knew each other, seemed to happen quite often. Yet, inevitably, I would miss the mark during one of her many crises, and she would accuse me of not living up to the very standards I had helped establish.
Suddenly, the label of “best friend” felt like a heavy burden—like a scratchy wool dress I couldn’t take off without assistance. Both of us were at fault; we had rushed into calling each other best friends before the foundation of true friendship had been laid.
This cycle occurred several times, which felt like too many. Once I recognized the type of women I was drawn to, I began to pay attention to the warning signs and the gut feelings that indicated something was off. I slowed down, determined to avoid the pitfalls of previous friendships. Then I met Mia*, who seemed to be a breath of fresh air.
Mia was charming and hilarious, and I thoroughly enjoyed our time together. However, each time I left her company, I felt either drained or somehow inadequate. Unable to identify the source of my discomfort, I allowed our friendship to accelerate, ignoring the signs that suggested something wasn’t right. Instead of heeding the warnings, I barreled ahead, chasing the sisterly bond I craved.
One evening over dinner, I shared that I was going on a blind date. “With who?” she asked, her interest piqued. When I mentioned the name of my date, Evan, her expression shifted dramatically. “Really? You’re going out with Evan?” she asked, incredulously. I felt a wave of disappointment wash over me.
“Do you know what he looks like?” I inquired. “No, is it bad?” I suspected it was. “No, it’s the opposite of bad,” she replied. “Evan is stunning and incredibly funny. It’s just… I don’t see it.”
Her comment stung. “So, I’m unattractive and dull?” I couldn’t help but feel the weight of her words. For weeks afterward, I struggled with feelings of inadequacy. Ironically, during this time, I was celebrated in a prominent publication for my contributions to culture. Yet, Mia was the last person to reach out that day.
“Oh, I guess you had a good day,” she remarked, her tone dripping with sarcasm. As I shared my news, her response was dismissive. “How did they choose you? It was just your photo in the paper.” I felt my excitement deflate.
Mia had a point; the assignment felt undeserved, but I didn’t need that criticism from someone who claimed to be my friend. The following day, I stumbled upon a segment on This American Life featuring Mike Albo discussing the concept of the “Underminer”—a friend who casually sabotages your confidence. It hit me like a lightning bolt: Mia was not a true friend; she was an underminer.
This realization was liberating. It was far more accurate than labeling her as a narcissist, which I had done in the past. Underminers actively damage your self-esteem, and understanding this allowed me to see my past friendships in a new light. I had unintentionally attracted these undermining personalities.
Once I recognized the characteristics of an underminer, I felt empowered to distance myself from those toxic relationships. I realized that my earlier friendships lacked the depth and authenticity that come from developing bonds slowly over time. I had rushed into these connections out of a desire for closeness, inadvertently undermining any chance for genuine friendship.
Mia was the last underminer I allowed into my life. After gaining insight into these harmful dynamics, I learned to trust my instincts and steer clear of friendships that didn’t feel right. Now, I prioritize authentic relationships and remain vigilant about the signs of undermining behavior to maintain a healthy social circle.
(Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.)
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In summary, recognizing the signs of an underminer can help you forge healthier, more meaningful friendships. By learning to trust your intuition and taking your time to build genuine connections, you can avoid falling into the trap of toxic relationships.