Look, I spent most of my twenties and early thirties trying to be the person I thought my friends wanted me to be. You know what I’m talking about, right? That carefully edited version of yourself where everything’s fine, your career trajectory makes perfect sense, and you definitely have your shit together.

The exhausting part wasn’t just maintaining the facade. It was watching everyone else do the same thing, knowing we were all performing for each other, pretending our lives were Instagram-worthy when half of us were barely keeping it together.

Then somewhere around 35, something shifted. Maybe it was becoming a father, or maybe it was just getting tired of the performance. But one by one, with the friends who really mattered, we started dropping the act. And what happened next completely transformed how I think about friendship.

The moment everything changed

I remember the exact conversation that started it. I was catching up with an old friend from university, doing the usual dance of accomplishments and humble brags. Then, mid-sentence, he just stopped and said, “Actually, man, I’m really struggling.”

That simple admission cracked something open. Suddenly we were talking about his actual life – the anxiety that kept him up at night, the job he hated but couldn’t leave, the relationship that looked perfect from the outside but was falling apart behind closed doors.

And instead of offering platitudes or trying to fix everything, I found myself sharing my own struggles. The period when I was working in a warehouse, feeling like my psychology education was completely wasted. The anxiety that plagued me throughout my twenties, that constant loop of worrying about the future while regretting the past.

That conversation lasted four hours. It was the first real conversation we’d had in years.

Why we perform for each other

Think about it – when did we collectively decide that friendship meant showing each other our highlight reels?

Part of it is social media, sure. We’ve gotten so used to curating our lives online that we forget how to turn it off in person. But I think it goes deeper than that. There’s this unspoken agreement that admitting struggle somehow makes us less valuable as friends. Like we’re afraid that if people see the mess behind the curtain, they’ll realize we’re not worth their time.

In my book Hidden Secrets of Buddhism: How To Live With Maximum Impact and Minimum Ego, I write about how the ego constantly seeks validation and fears rejection. That’s exactly what’s happening when we perform for our friends. Our ego is running the show, terrified of being seen as anything less than successful.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the friendships that survive are the ones where both people eventually get tired of the performance. Where vulnerability becomes more valuable than perfection.

The surprising aftermath of honesty

When my friends and I started being real with each other, I expected things to get heavy. And sometimes they did. But mostly? Things got lighter.

Without the pressure to maintain our facades, hanging out became actually enjoyable again. We could laugh at our failures instead of hiding them. We could celebrate small wins without worrying they weren’t impressive enough. We could ask for help without feeling like we were admitting defeat.

One friend called me recently at 11 PM, not because of some crisis, but because he’d just realized he’d been pretending to like craft beer for five years and needed to tell someone. We laughed for twenty minutes about all the IPAs he’d forced himself to drink. That’s the kind of conversation you can only have when the pretending stops.

How to start dropping the act

If you’re sitting there thinking, “This sounds great, but how do I actually do this?” – I get it. It’s scary to be the first one to break the pattern.

Start small. Next time a friend asks how you’re doing, resist the automatic “fine” or “busy.” Give them something real. Not necessarily your deepest trauma, but something true. Maybe you’re stressed about money. Maybe you’re questioning your career path. Maybe you’re just really tired of pretending to understand cryptocurrency.

Watch what happens. Nine times out of ten, your honesty will give them permission to be honest too. It’s like everyone’s been waiting for someone else to go first.

I’ve found that questions help too. Instead of asking “How’s work?” try “What’s actually going on with you right now?” Instead of “How’ve you been?” ask “What’s been on your mind lately?” These questions bypass the rehearsed responses and get to what’s real.

What we talk about now

The conversations I have with my closest friends now would have been unthinkable five years ago. We talk about our fears of not being good enough parents (becoming a father to my daughter has given me a whole new category of anxieties to explore). We talk about the careers we thought we wanted versus the ones we actually have. We talk about getting older and what success even means anymore.

But we also talk about ridiculous things with the same level of honesty. Bad dates, weird dreams, the TV shows we’re embarrassed to love. There’s no hierarchy of what’s worth sharing anymore. Everything’s on the table.

This shift has even influenced my work. When I founded Hack Spirit back in 2016, I thought I needed to position myself as someone who had all the answers. Now I realize the most helpful thing I can offer is the admission that I’m figuring it out too, just like everyone else.

The unexpected benefit

Here’s what I didn’t expect: when you stop performing for your friends, you also stop performing for yourself.

All that energy I used to spend maintaining my image? It’s free now. I can use it for things that actually matter. Building my business, being present with my family, or sometimes just sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing without feeling guilty about it.

The voice in my head that used to constantly evaluate whether my life looked successful enough? It’s quieter now. Not silent – I don’t think it ever goes completely quiet – but quiet enough that I can hear other things. Like what I actually want, not what I think I should want.

Final words

At 37, I have fewer friends than I did at 27. But the ones I have? They know me. Actually know me. Not the polished version or the strategic version or the version that makes sense on paper. The real, messy, contradiction-filled version.

These friendships have become my anchor. In a world that’s constantly asking us to optimize and perform and brand ourselves, they’re the space where I can just be. Where I can admit I don’t have it figured out. Where I can celebrate the small victories and mourn the small defeats without wondering how it affects my image.

If you’re exhausted from performing for your friends, consider this permission to stop. Start with one person, one conversation, one honest moment. See what happens when you let people see the truth instead of the show.

The friendships that survive the truth are the ones worth keeping. And what grows in place of the pretending – that raw, real, sometimes uncomfortable but always authentic connection – might just be the best thing you build in the next decade of your life.

Trust me on this one. Or don’t. But maybe try it anyway.