When you take a close look at me, I think you’d agree that I’d make a pretty good friend.
I’m caring, loyal and honest – not brash or boastful. I’m quick to compliment people on a new outfit or hairstyle and I always remember birthdays and anniversaries.
I’m interested in people and lead an interesting life: I’ve worked in a variety of jobs, all around the country, from PR to digital marketing, before I launched my own gluten-free food blog, which led to a successful career as an award-winning writer of specialist cookbooks.
All in all, I’d say women could do a lot worse than me if they are looking for a special confidante or shoulder to cry on.
But the fact is, I don’t have any friends. Not one. Oh, I have acquaintances, hundreds of them, people I chat to at work events. My phone contacts list is enormous, and I have more than 400,000 followers on Instagram.
But do I have anyone I could call, right now, to see if they fancy meeting for a glass of wine later, or to take shopping and seek a second opinion on a new dress? No, I don’t. Not a single one.
I looked through my phone the other day and I realised I haven’t received a call from anyone, other than my boyfriend, mother, work contacts, doctor or dentist, for more than two years. Why is this? I wish I knew, and believe me, I have dug deep for answers. I know it can’t be everyone else’s fault, that the common denominator in every failed female friendship I’ve attempted is me.
Somewhere there is a disconnect, a hidden trip switch that stops anyone from taking me into their confidence.
Like in nature, where animals subliminally identify individuals that are not part of their established social structure, or pose a threat to the group dynamic, other women just don’t warm to me.
And the problem is self-generating. The more I worry and look for clues as to how I am being ‘received’ in new company, the shyer and more tense I become, until eventually I feel the rope slip between my fingers, and I’m cast adrift once more.
The longer it goes on, the rustier my social skills are becoming. I’ve no idea of ‘appropriate responses’, how much personal information to share, how much to hold back. Who calls whom? When? And how often?
In the end, I tie myself in such a knot, it feels easier to say nothing at all. At which point (I guess) people assume I’m boring, haughty or weird.
I’ve not always been like this. I grew up in a happy, stable home in Colchester, Essex, with my dad, Steve, who owned a packaging and cosmetics company, and mum, Sue, who worked in a bank, plus my younger brother, Charlie – all of whom had, and have, lots of friends.
As a child, I’d describe myself as the confident, popular girl at primary school, but the first wire came loose when it came to selecting our secondary school options.
A bright child, it was assumed I’d go to the girls’ grammar school. But, with a stroke of appalling luck, on the day of the 11-plus exam I got my first period.
Feeling distracted and uncomfortable, I failed the exam by a few marks, whereas everyone in my friendship group passed. My parents appealed, but to no avail, so that September I started at a new school, knowing no one.
To be honest, I was such a confident person, it didn’t bother me. I was open to new beginnings and opportunities, and to start with I managed to secure myself a new group of friends.
No one from my old school kept in touch, but I did nothing to maintain ties with them, so it was a clean break I was totally comfortable with.
But then, aged 13 and 14, I noticed the first disconnect, as everyone started maturing at different rates and I found the new social reference points, such as make-up, boys and acting ‘cool’, utterly baffling.
Being ‘me’ had always been enough before, and I couldn’t bring myself to toe the adolescent line without feeling a fraud and an oddity. It’s a tricky age, I know, but I found myself nudged from the centre of the group to the periphery – before eventually I was a complete outsider.
My confidence plummeted, and for the first time it dawned on me that making friends didn’t come easily to me any more.
Sixth-form college presented a second ‘fresh start’ and initially I did fit in. There were nights out at pubs and clubs in town – alcohol definitely helped. In fact, it was one on of these boozy nights that I met my partner, Mark, now 37, who was at university then. I did very well in my A-levels – four As – and got a place at the University of Manchester to study law. So off I went again, leaving another friendship group behind.
By now social media was picking up, and I could see my old friends having the time of their lives in far-flung cities with their new university friends. I assumed they wouldn’t be interested in hearing from me – so I didn’t keep in touch.
There have been other challenges along the way. I was in my first term of university when my health started to deteriorate – I was exhausted and had horrible digestive problems – and discovered I was gluten-intolerant.
That drove the first discernible wedge between me and my student housemates, as I couldn’t go out for meals or cook with them. I’d be the ‘problem’ one, scanning menus, vetoing choices or sitting awkwardly at the end of a table with a glass of water.
I also really missed Mark, spending most of my evenings on the phone to him or travelling the 230 miles home to visit him – another socially destructive snowball being pushed downhill. The less I saw of my flatmates, the deeper the chasm between us grew.
I was hating my course, too, and I quit after Christmas. I think my flatmates barely registered I’d gone.
I tried again the next year, at the University of Sussex in Brighton, to study business, but barely lasted a year. I became a virtual recluse, scanning the corridor through the keyhole of my room to check no one was around before I’d venture out.
People just didn’t seem to like me. Every attempt I made to make friends ended in humiliating failure. I tried joining the women’s football team, giving myself an almighty pep talk beforehand, and convincing myself that this was going to be it.
But the trial followed the same, depressing pattern: there was the superficial friendliness as we walked off the pitch, before established couplings cleaved off, and I was left on the fringes, trying to laugh in all the right places, but obviously getting it wrong. There were no follow-up invitations to go to the bar afterwards. I didn’t make the team.
Shame made me keep most of this to myself. I never confided in anyone. Mark couldn’t work out why I cried every time he left after a weekend visit.
My third, and ultimately successful, foray back into education was at the University of Essex, near my home, where I graduated with a First in business management.
I deliberately didn’t move back home with my parents and got a room in a shared student flat – where I connected with no one.
Exacerbating the problem was the fact that by now, in 2013, I was in the grip of a severe eating disorder.
Confining yourself to your room most of the time, and being socially isolated for weeks and months on end, does not make for good eating habits. I was later diagnosed with anorexia nervosa with bingeing tendencies. There was no way of hiding my dramatic weight loss. My parents and Mark were terrified; they just didn’t know what to do as I’d react angrily to any interventions.
When Mark, who by now was running his own clothing brand, decided to move to Manchester for a fresh start, it jolted me into action. With no friends, Mark literally was my everything.
So I went to the doctor and asked for help – and got it.
My father paid for a private psychotherapist and dietitian, I was treated at an NHS unit in Colchester – and slowly I clawed my way back to health.
Mark and I are settled back in Essex now. I’ve tried various office jobs over the years, going into each one with a positive attitude, convinced that this time I’d find the friendship group I was missing – over lunch breaks or post-work drinks. Yet everything remained at the same, superficial level.
My co-workers would be chatting in the kitchen, and I’d walk in and the atmosphere just changed. I never knew anyone’s partner or child’s name, or where they were going on holiday.
I kept myself busy with my blog, which I’d started in 2013 to create and share gluten-free recipes, and my following grew. By 2017, I was able to concentrate on it full-time, with Mark as my co-worker. It led to a book deal in 2020, and my seventh book is about to be published.
I now have more than a million followers across social media. My books have made the Sunday Times bestseller list. I’ve won multiple awards, appeared on TV and radio and yet… I’d still love to find a special friend.
When I hear of women my age still seeing old school friends or officiating as bridesmaids at each other’s weddings, I feel so envious. It’s such a special bond – I’d dearly love to have a friend like that.
I think part of the problem with the digital age is that while it’s easier than ever to connect with many thousands of people, all at the same time, it’s made deeper, one-to-one bonds harder to maintain.
A few years ago, I did get close with some people in my online networking community and hoped we’d all meet up in real life. Then I went online one day and saw pictures of a BBQ that had been organised – and to which I hadn’t been invited.
I was hurt and confused, and asked one of the girls who went about it. She said she was sorry, but they only had room for so many people.
It was an excuse – of course they could have fitted me in, they just didn’t want to.
I decided to accept it. This is how my life is. And it’s not a bad life. I’m busy, happy and loved. I’ve a lot to be grateful for.
Most of the time it’s just me, Mark – who doesn’t have a huge friendship group himself, something he’s perfectly happy with – and our immediate families, plus our miniature schnauzer dog, Peggy.
Now and then, however, I’d like there to be someone I could call on – if only to complain about Mark on the rare occasions we have an argument!
I’m 34 now and would love to start a family if I can. I’m told that is a great way to make friends, too.
In 2021, I did a Radio 5 Live interview to promote my book where I confessed, for the first time, about how difficult it is to make friends.
I received an astonishing response, with women aged 18 to 60 saying: ‘Oh my gosh, that is me!’ It was a relief to know that maybe I’m not such an oddity after all.
After that, some people who feel the same way reached out to me on Instagram, and we exchanged messages.
We’re still in touch, and I haven’t given up on finding that special someone: a real friend.
Budget Gluten Free, by Becky Excell, is out on February 13 (£20, Quadrille).
