On Fair-Weather Friends and the Art of Quiet Guardedness

Fairweather Friends

There’s a peculiar feeling that washes over me when someone who was notably absent during my struggles suddenly reappears in my life. Maybe they’re nervous about what I wrote in my book. Maybe I’ve achieved something they want proximity to. Either way, the timing tells me everything I need to know.

I’ve learned to call this feeling “quiet guardedness”, not bitterness, not resentment, but a calm, clear-eyed awareness about the difference between conditional and unconditional support.

A Gentle Boundary

I don’t say this with judgment. We’re all learning, all flawed, all sometimes more selfish than we’d like to admit. But I’ve also learned to be more intentional about which connections I nurture. Some relationships, I’ve realized, were only ever situational.

The lesson isn’t to close myself off. It’s to notice. To recognize the difference between people who show up for you and people who show up for what you represent to them. And then, gently but firmly, to choose where you place your energy.

That’s not holding a grudge. That’s just learning to honor your own story, including the chapters where you learned who was really reading along.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

What Fair-Weather Friendship Costs Us

There’s a reason this pattern of conditional presence hurts so deeply, it violates something fundamental about how we’re meant to relate to one another. And for those who claim to follow Christ, it’s worth asking, what does selective availability say about the faith they profess?

The Invitation to Do Better

I’ve written a memoir. And with it came something I didn’t expect….the interesting response of people who’d been absent for years, not with congratulations or curiosity, but with fear.

Fear that I’d written about them. Fear that I’d exposed their gossip, chronicled their betrayals, catalogued the pain they’d inflicted. Here’s what they don’t understand. My story was never about them.

The Story I Actually Wrote

My memoir isn’t a tell-all. It’s not a revenge chronicle or a public settling of scores. It’s the story of how I survived, how I overcame, how I became someone who could thrive despite, not because of, the chapters that tried to break me.

Yes, there were people who weren’t kind. Yes, there were seasons of isolation and hurt. But I didn’t write 300 pages to drag anyone through the mud. I wrote them to show what’s possible when you refuse to let your worst seasons define you.

The narrative arc isn’t “look what they did to me.” It’s “look what I became anyway.”

The Revealing Nature of Their Fear

But here’s what their anxiety reveals. They know what they did. Or didn’t do. Their fear is a confession I never asked for. It tells me they’re aware they were absent when presence mattered. That they participated in harm, even if passively. That they’re not reaching out because they genuinely want to reconnect, they’re reaching out to manage their image.

And that distinction matters.

The Quiet Guardedness Returns

So yes, I’m cautious. Not bitter, not vengeful, but careful. Because I notice the timing. I notice that concern for our relationship only materialized when they worried about their reputation, not when I actually needed support. I notice they’re asking “what did you say about me?” instead of “how are you doing?”

This isn’t the foundation for authentic reconnection. It’s damage control masquerading as reconciliation.

What Reconnection Would Actually Require

If someone truly wants back in, here’s what I need to see:

Acknowledgment. Not defensiveness, not excuses, but a simple recognition: “I wasn’t there when I should have been.”

Genuine interest. Ask about my life now, my work, my journey, not just your reputation in my pages.

Patience. Understand that trust, once broken, doesn’t rebuild on your timeline. If you disappeared for years, don’t expect me to re-open the door in weeks.

Presence without agenda. Show up because you actually care about me as a person, not because you’re worried about what I might have said.

The Christian Responsibility Here

And for those who claim faith as I do, remember that Jesus talked about this. He spoke about people who honor him with their lips while their hearts are far from him. He noticed performative religiosity versus genuine transformation.

Reaching out because you’re afraid of exposure isn’t repentance, it’s reputation management. And I’m no longer in a place in my life where I confuse the two.

Moving Forward

I don’t say any of this with malice. I genuinely hope that people who hurt me have grown, that they’ve learned, that they’re becoming better versions of themselves.

But I’m also no longer willing to sacrifice my peace to make other people comfortable with their past choices. I’ve worked too hard to become someone who thrives to let fair-weather friends drain that energy now.

My memoir is about my resilience, my faith, my overcoming spirit. It’s about the person I fought to become. And that person has learned to honor her own story, including the wisdom to be selective about who gets to be part of the next chapter.

If you were absent then and you’re only here now out of fear? I wish you well, but I’m not obligated to reassure you.

If you were absent then and you’re here now with genuine humility, curiosity, and willingness to show up differently? Let’s talk. Slowly. Carefully. With honesty.

Because the story I’m living now deserves relationships built on something more solid than anxiety and self-preservation.

It deserves people who show up not because they’re afraid of what I might say, but because they genuinely want to be part of what comes next.

BraveBeyondBreaking.com

Author Melissa Saulnier