I had to look at different parts of my life and rate how well they were working on a scale from one to ten. Out of ten areas, only two scored above a four. On a ten-point scale! At first, I thought, “My life freakin’ sucks.” But the assignment wasn’t over yet. The real task was to figure out what agreements or promises had been broken in those areas that weren’t working well.
I sat there, thinking hard. And honestly, I couldn’t find a single violation. I’m such an honest person everywhere—I haven’t broken any agreements. “It’s all their fault!” I told myself.
So I stood up and said, “I don’t have any broken agreements. Everything is clear and clean. I always try to nurture and cherish personal relationships to the fullest.” But those relationships fell apart, and the people didn’t show up for years. Still, I felt present in those moments. Then the coach, of course, pointed out, “Well, you admit you have a ‘what if.’ Maybe some agreements were broken in relation to you, and you never restored your integrity.”
I sat there trying to think. Nothing came to mind. Then I was paired with this incredibly handsome, kind guy named Leonard Theodor Ludwig—LT for short. He shared how he hadn’t fully supported a friend, even though he had promised to. And he realized he needed to do better.
Suddenly, it hit me. There was a violation of integrity in my close relationships. Not just any relationships, but my very first close friendships. And that, I realized, mattered a lot.
Friendship is love without sex, right? I had a friend—a real friend—for many years. We met when I was about 16. People say female friendships are often fake, but ours wasn’t. We stood by each other, created together, dreamed together. Our inner worlds were so close, so intimate. We traveled together. We were like family.
Then time passed. I got married. And my friend disappeared from my life.
Then came another “friend.” This new friend took all my time, thoughts, and emotions.
What was going on in my family life didn’t really matter. What mattered was what happened to me without me even noticing—I betrayed my first real friendship, the most beautiful closeness I’ve ever known.
Since breaking that bond, I never managed to build true closeness again.
Now I understand why. You could imagine it like this: when my husband displaced my friend in my heart, I betrayed that friendship. I created an alternate reality where closeness was impossible. It’s like the movie “Back to the Future”—I wish I had a time machine to go back and fix things.
But more simply, I broke my integrity. That moment doesn’t change whether I noticed it or not. Since then, I couldn’t form close friendships. And I wasn’t capable of deep intimate relationships either—because love is just friendship with sex.
Imagine integrity as a beautiful vessel. If a small piece chips off, it loses its beauty. If the bottom falls out, no matter how much you pour in, it’s all a mess.
No matter how hard I tried to fill my broken jug of integrity, neglect kept spilling out.
This realization was not just a “penny dropping.” It was like lightning struck. Everything became crystal clear.
Though I’m deeply sorry for lost opportunities and friendships, and for the friend who now thinks I’m worthless and won’t even answer my letters, I accepted that I deserved this. More than ever.
Yet in this moment of painful clarity, I felt my integrity restored. Battered and worn, yes. The bottom a little ragged. But reattached.
And now, I know I can truly create closeness, friendship, and be a real friend—not a backstabber.
It’s astonishing how concepts like closeness, friendship, and love can become empty words if they’re built on broken integrity. For years, I wondered why people didn’t build closeness with me. They do—but not with someone who has an empty jug. Who would pour gold into a vessel with no bottom?
