Throughout my twenties and early thirties, I found myself in a series of intense yet fleeting friendships with women who were just as unsuitable for me as the partners I chose. The pattern was predictable: I would meet someone new who seemed fantastic, share a whirlwind of interests, form a quick bond, and then mistakenly label this bond as “best friendship” before genuine closeness had the chance to blossom.
I often overshared too early, eager to offer heartfelt support that outweighed the depth of our connection. I liked being the person she turned to in moments of crisis, which, given our brief acquaintance, felt remarkably frequent. However, when I inevitably fell short during one of her many dramas, she would fault me for not meeting the expectations I had helped set. Suddenly, the title of “best friend” morphed into a weighty burden, like a scratchy sweater I couldn’t remove without assistance. We both played a role in this dynamic: we had rushed into a title before nurturing the actual friendship.
This cycle repeated itself several times, far too many to count. Once I recognized the type of women I was drawn to, I made a conscious effort to spot the red flags, listen to my instincts, and heed the unsettling feelings in my gut when things felt off. I slowed down my approach to friendships, believing I had learned my lesson by the time I met Clara*.
Clara was eager to forge a connection, while I took things at a more measured pace. She was witty and engaging, and our time together was undeniably enjoyable. Yet, each time I left her presence, I felt either depleted or inferior. Unable to pinpoint why, I allowed the friendship to accelerate, dismissing the signs that something wasn’t right. Instead of heeding the warning signals, I zoomed past them, chasing the sisterly bond I longed for.
One evening during dinner, we had a conversation that stuck with me because it cut deep. I mentioned I was going on a blind date.
“What’s his name?” Clara asked, wiping sauce from her lips.
“Someone Maggie set me up with,” I replied.
“Do I know him?”
“No, he lives upstate.”
“Where upstate?” she probed.
“Somewhere like Tivoli or Cold Spring.”
“I probably know him! What’s his name?”
“Graham Hunter,” I said, taking a bite of my meal.
Her reaction was immediate and disheartening. “Really? You’re being set up with Graham Hunter?”
“Yeah, why?” I responded, feeling a wave of disappointment wash over me.
“Do you know what he looks like?” she asked.
“No. Is he awful?” I already suspected the answer.
“No, it’s the opposite of awful. Graham Hunter is incredibly attractive and super funny. I just… I don’t understand it.”
I was left in shock, feeling like I was being labeled as ugly and dull. Even in the glow of being included in a New York Times article highlighting local creatives, Clara’s words echoed in my mind.
The next day, I received a call from Clara, her tone dripping with skepticism, as she questioned the legitimacy of my new writing assignment from New York Magazine.
“Why did they ask you?” she challenged. “It was just a photo, right?”
Her insinuation struck a nerve. “I’m a writer,” I retorted. “That’s clearly stated.”
“Still, it’s not fair. You get recognition just because of a picture, while I’m here struggling to get noticed.”
Her remarks felt unjust, especially coming from someone who claimed to be a friend. After listening to Mike Albo’s segment on This American Life, in which he described the “underminer”—a friend who subtly sabotages your confidence—I had an epiphany. Clara wasn’t a true friend; she was undermining my self-worth.
This realization shifted everything for me. It became clear that my past friendships had often been with underminers, and I had unknowingly attracted them. The term “underminer” resonated more than any label I had previously used, allowing me to articulate my experience and validate my feelings. It empowered me to walk away from Clara and similar friendships.
Understanding the concept of underminers opened my eyes to the many healthy friendships I had developed over time, built on genuine love rather than the fleeting infatuation often mistaken for deep connection among women. I also recognized my role in perpetuating this cycle by rushing into friendships before they had the chance to mature.
After my experience with Clara, I became adept at identifying underminers and learned to trust my instincts. I stopped ignoring the signs that indicated a friendship might not be genuine, and I embraced the process of building connections at a more natural pace. Since then, I can confidently say I’ve distanced myself from underminers.
(Names have been changed to protect identities.)
If you’re curious about home insemination, check out this informative post from our other blog, which offers valuable insights for anyone considering this path. For more information on at-home insemination kits, visit this trusted resource.
In summary, recognizing the traits of an underminer can transform your approach to friendships. By fostering genuine connections and trusting your instincts, you can build lasting and fulfilling relationships.