When I Was the “Toxic” Friend: A Teacher’s Perspective on Childhood Friendships
I still remember the exact moment in eighth grade when I knew I was being a bad friend—even though I didn’t admit it to myself for another ten years. We were in the cafeteria, and my best friend Emily sat down across from me with her tray. She’d just been laughing with a girl from our math class. I asked who that was. She said, “Oh, just Maya. She’s in my homeroom.”
“Cool,” I said. Then I didn’t speak for the rest of lunch.
Emily asked if something was wrong. I said, “Nothing.” She asked again, quieter. I shrugged and stared at my pizza. By the end of the period, she was apologizing to me, even though she hadn’t done anything. She promised she’d save me a seat every day, and she asked if I wanted to come over after school. I said maybe. I let her sit with that.
That was the pattern. If Emily made another friend, I got quiet. If she didn’t text back fast enough, I said “fine” in a way that wasn’t fine. Once, before a birthday party she was excited about, I told her I didn’t feel well and asked her to stay home with me. She did. I remember how good it felt to know I mattered more than anyone else. I don’t think I ever said thank you.
I was the toxic friend.
It’s hard to write that, because I don’t think of myself as a bad person. I was a scared kid. My parents had just gone through a rough divorce, we’d moved to a new town, and Emily was the only thing that felt steady. But I didn’t know how to say “I’m scared you’ll leave me,” so I said “I’m fine” instead. The result was the same: I controlled her with guilt and silence. She was walking on eggshells every single day, and I convinced myself that was just how close friends were supposed to be.
It ended in a bathroom stall. Emily found me after third period and handed me a folded note. She was crying a little but her voice was steady. She said, “I can’t be your friend anymore. I don’t know who I’m allowed to talk to. I don’t know what I’m allowed to say. I love you, but I can’t do this.”
I was floored. I called her dramatic. I said our friendship meant nothing to her. I even tried the silent treatment one last time, but she just walked away. For weeks I told myself she gave up on me. It wasn’t until high school, when someone else did it to me, that I felt the other side. Walking on eggshells is exhausting. I started to understand what I’d put her through.
Now I teach sixth grade, and I see this play out every year. The kid who won’t let their best friend sit with anyone else. The note that says “if you don’t pick me, we’re done.” The silent treatment that lasts for days. As a teacher, it’s not always obvious from the outside. The toxic friend isn’t usually the loud one. They’re often well-liked, funny, and genuinely kind in other ways. Their friendship can feel so intense that the other child doesn’t know how to name what’s happening.
Parents often ask me what to do when their child is on the receiving end. But the harder conversation, the one we avoid, is what to do when your child is the one doing the hurting. It’s easier to assume there’s always one “mean kid” and one “victim.” In reality, most kids are capable of both. Some children behave in controlling ways not because they’re malicious but because they lack the skills to manage fear, jealousy, and rejection. That doesn’t excuse the behavior. It just explains it. And explanation is what makes change possible.
When I talk to a parent who suspects their child is acting like I did, I don’t start with a lecture. I start with a specific moment. “When you saw your daughter’s face after her friend said hello to someone else, what do you think she felt?” Usually the parent already knows. We talk about the difference between feeling scared and using that fear to control someone. The child isn’t bad. But the behavior has a shape, and we can name it.
One practical thing I’ve learned is to avoid asking “Why did you do that?” Most kids genuinely don’t know. Instead, I rewind the moment and ask for the missing sentence. “You told Maya to go away. What were you feeling right before you said that?” A child might say “jealous” or “left out.” Then I ask, “What would have happened if you’d said, ‘I’m feeling left out right now’?” The answer is almost always “She would have understood.” That’s the repair.
I also encourage parents to practice repair scripts at home, not during a conflict but at the dinner table or before bed. Something as simple as “Let’s play that scene again. Pretend I’m your friend and you’re you. What could you say instead of silence?” If your child is like I was, they may not have the words. So give them words. “I was scared. I’m sorry. Can we start over?” It sounds cliché, but it works because it’s specific. A child needs to hear the exact sentence many times before they can say it on their own.
Another important shift is to talk about friendship behavior rather than labeling the child a bad friend. When I was eleven, if an adult had told me I was controlling and manipulative, I would have shut down. But if they’d said, “I think you’re holding onto Emily too tight because you’re scared, and that’s making her feel unsafe,” I might have listened. Labels make kids defensive. Behavior description makes them curious. “When you say ‘fine’ in that voice, your friend doesn’t know what you need. That’s a pattern, not a personality.”
I also watch for enmeshment. Some friendships get so intense that both kids stop having other friends. That’s not automatically toxic, but it can be. One of the healthiest things a parent can do is gently encourage independence—not as a punishment, but as a simple routine. “You can go to the party and still have Saturdays with us.” “You don’t have to choose who to sit with every day.” When I think about Emily, I wonder how different it would have been if my mom had asked me, “Do you ever feel scared when Emily talks to other people?” and then actually listened.
Years later, I ran into Emily at a coffee shop. I told her I thought about her a lot. I said, “I was a bad friend to you, and I’m sorry.” She nodded and said, “You were. But I forgave you a long time ago.” We talked for fifteen minutes, mostly about her kids and my teaching. We didn’t become friends again, and that’s okay. Some bridges don’t need to be rebuilt; they just need to be acknowledged.
I still see girls and boys in my classroom who are one silent treatment away from losing a friend they love. When I work with them, I don’t tell them they’re terrible people. I tell them, “I know what it’s like to be so scared of losing someone that you squeeze too hard.” The ones who are ready to hear it will ask, “How did you stop?” I don’t have a perfect answer. I walked around with the guilt for years. What helped most was someone showing me a different way to ask for what I needed.
That’s the part I try to offer as a teacher. Not a cure. Just a different script. “I want you to stay with me” instead of “Fine.” “I feel left out” instead of going silent. “Can we talk tomorrow?” instead of giving the cold shoulder. It doesn’t fix everything. But it gives kids a way out of the pattern before the friendship breaks beyond repair.
I don’t know if any of my former students are thinking about me now, remembering the time I sat with them and said “You’re not bad. You’re just scared.” Maybe not. But I think about Emily enough for all of us.
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