A Blog For Mums
When my daughter hit her first big sleep regression, I was running on fumes. Nights blurred into mornings, mornings into afternoons, and I honestly couldn’t tell you what day it was most of the time. Coffee was the only thing keeping me upright. But when I cancelled a catch-up with a friend after yet another night of broken sleep, her response wasn’t what I expected. She didn’t send a kind message or tell me to rest. Instead, she was furious. She held it against me for a week, as if my bleary-eyed exhaustion had somehow been an insult to her.
That was the first moment I realised something had shifted. Motherhood hadn’t just changed me — it had changed my friendships too. And it opened my eyes to the fact that one of the people I thought I could rely on was actually a social vampire: someone who drained my energy instead of giving me any back.
Before I had children, I had more time and emotional space. Long phone calls, last-minute meet-ups, listening to other people’s dramas — it all fitted neatly into my life. I was that friend who could be counted on to drop everything for a late-night chat, the one who always had time to talk things through. But once I became a mum, that space disappeared almost overnight.
Suddenly, I was the one who needed patience and understanding. My world had shrunk to night feeds, endless washing, and a tiny person who depended on me completely. Instead of meeting me where I was, my “friend” carried on as if nothing had changed. She expected the same attention, the same availability, the same unpaid therapy sessions.
Conversations weren’t about me or my little one; they were still about her problems. And every time we met, I walked away feeling drained rather than supported. The more I thought about it, the more obvious it became: she wasn’t really being a friend. She was being a social vampire.
It’s funny how clear the signs are once you see them. Before motherhood, I brushed off the little digs or the sulky silences if I couldn’t meet up. I excused the way she dominated conversations or made me feel guilty for not giving enough of myself. But once I had a baby, I didn’t have the luxury of spare emotional energy anymore.
It became glaringly obvious that her needs always came first. If I cancelled because the baby was poorly, she sulked. If I turned up late because I was wrestling with nap schedules, she rolled her eyes. There was no space for my struggles, no understanding of my new life. Just a constant undercurrent of resentment that I wasn’t giving her what she wanted.
Looking back, I realise I’d always been the “listener” in the friendship. She thrived on being centre stage, and I had been happy to let her. But with a baby in my arms and no sleep in my body, I couldn’t keep giving like that. The imbalance became impossible to ignore.
The coffee incident was the moment everything crystallised. I remember the sheer dread I felt when I saw her angry message after I cancelled. It wasn’t disappointment — it was hostility. And the guilt that followed wasn’t about letting her down; it was about admitting to myself that this friendship no longer felt healthy.
The truth is it had been building for months. I’d dread her texts, not because I didn’t care, but because I simply didn’t have the energy to prop her up anymore. One day, after another tense exchange where she made me feel guilty for not “being there” like before, I realised something important: I didn’t owe anyone my exhaustion. My baby and my family needed me more than a social vampire did.
Letting go wasn’t easy. Cutting ties with someone who once mattered to you never is. I agonised over whether I was being selfish or dramatic. But then I asked myself: who actually benefits from this friendship anymore?
The answer was clear. She got everything — attention, time, reassurance. I got stress, guilt, and a constant sense of being drained. And that’s not what friendship should feel like.
So I stepped back. At first it was just little things — taking longer to reply, declining invitations. But eventually, I stopped trying altogether. And the relief I felt was undeniable. I had more room to breathe, more energy for the people who lifted me up rather than drained me, and more focus on the kind of mum I wanted to be.
What surprised me most was how quickly I stopped missing her. What I missed was the idea of friendship, not the reality of the one I had.
Of course, there was guilt. There always is when you let someone go. I replayed old memories, reminded myself of good times, and wondered if I was being too harsh. But every time I thought about picking things back up, I remembered how it felt to walk away from her. The lightness, the calm, the sheer relief of no longer being drained. That told me everything I needed to know.
Motherhood had given me a kind of clarity I didn’t have before. When you’re responsible for a tiny human, you become fiercely protective of your time and energy. You can’t afford to waste either on people who don’t respect your boundaries.
Motherhood teaches you many lessons, but one of the hardest is that not every friendship is meant to survive the shift. Some people can’t — or won’t — adapt to your new life, and that’s okay. It doesn’t make you a bad friend to walk away. It makes you a better mum, a stronger person, and someone who values energy over guilt.
I’ve learned that when you cut off the social vampires, you make room for the people who give back — the friends who understand that sometimes you’ll cancel, sometimes you’ll cry, and sometimes you’ll turn up late with baby sick on your shoulder, and love you anyway.
And those are the friendships worth keeping.
Self Care and Health
