The Friendship Deficit
The Friendship Deficit
I've been thinking about Dunbar's Number - the research that says humans can only maintain around 150 social relationships, with about 15 close friends and 5 truly intimate bonds.
The theory makes sense. Relationships require time and energy. You can't give everyone equal attention. Something has to give.
But knowing that doesn't make it easier when the voice in your head says otherwise.
"If you really cared, you'd make more time."
"Other people manage this. Why can't you?"
"You're not hosting enough. You're not inviting people out enough. You're not doing enough."
"If these friendships mattered to you, you'd figure it out."
That voice doesn't account for reality. It just says: not enough.
I live in Seattle. I've built a life here over the past three years.
There are movie nights with friends. Potlucks where we actually cook together. Board game sessions that rotate between apartments. Blood on the Clocktower games. Art nights. Game show competitions with custom Kahoot quizzes someone (JP) spent hours making.
I'm not always the one hosting, but I show up. I participate. These people have made this city feel like home.
And then there's Los Angeles.
Twenty-year friendships. People who knew me at 13. Cabin trips and inside jokes and traditions that started in high school. The friends who've been there through everything.
I know how lucky I am to have this. I care about both groups deeply. I want to show up fully for both.
And I can't.
The structural reality makes it easier to show up in Seattle. I have my own place. Friends are walking distance. I'm embedded in the daily life here.
But I've known these people for three years. My LA friends? Two decades.
There's this guilt that I'm better at maintaining the "newer" friendships than the ones I consider foundational. Not because I care less about LA - but because geography and logistics make it harder.
When I'm in Seattle, I could host more. I could invite people over more often. I could be the one organizing game nights instead of just showing up to them.
But I'm also trying to grow in my career - building leadership skills, technical depth, the work it takes to actually improve. I'm working on a game I want to build. I have hobbies I'm trying to maintain. And honestly, I'm managing depression some days, which means just getting through work and showing up to one social thing feels like an accomplishment.
When I visit LA, I want to be in the daily rhythms. I want to be part of the spontaneous hangouts, the group chat banter, the inside jokes as they're forming.
But I live 1,000 miles away. I can only visit occasionally. And when I do, I don't have my own place to host from - I'm staying in my childhood bedroom at my parents' house, which makes it harder to just say "hey everyone come over."
Every invitation feels precious. Someone thought of me. They want me there. That matters.
And I want to reciprocate. I want to be the person who invites, who hosts, who shows up not just when asked but proactively.
But the math doesn't work.
If I say yes to every invite, I have no time for work or hobbies. If I host more, something else has to give. If I try to maintain daily presence with my LA friends from Seattle, I'd be texting constantly and never actually present where I am.
I can't give everyone 100%. Dunbar's Number says so. Time says so. Energy says so.
But it still feels like failure.
My Seattle friends are building lives here. They're getting promotions, moving into new apartments, dating people seriously. I show up when I can, but I'm also always aware that I want to move back to LA eventually - for retirement, for family, for the creative scene I'm drawn to.
Does that make me a bad friend? That I'm participating fully now but with one foot already thinking about leaving?
My LA friends are building lives there. They have inside jokes I'm not part of. Group chats I'm not in. Daily rhythms I can't access from 1,000 miles away.
I fly down for cabin trips and major events. I text when something big happens. But I'm missing the small stuff - the random Tuesday night when everyone meets up, the inside joke that forms from someone's typo in the group chat.
Does that make me a bad friend? That I care deeply but can't be there for the day-to-day?
I don't know.
I care about these people. All of them. Both cities. The 20-year friendships and the 3-year ones. The people I see every week and the people I see once a year.
And I'm doing my best to show up where I can.
But my best isn't infinite. My time isn't infinite. My energy isn't infinite.
Maybe the real question isn't "am I doing enough?"
Maybe it's: "Am I showing up where I can, in the ways that actually matter?"
I don't have a good answer yet. But I'm starting to think the guilt itself—the fact that I care this much about being present—might be proof that I'm not actually failing.
The people who don't care don't lose sleep over this. I do. And maybe that counts for something.