‘I said awful things about a friend while drunk – and I'm panicking that she might have overheard'
I recently was on a girls' trip with some close friends. One of the nights I stayed up late with one of the girls, while the others went to bed. The two of us ended up quite drunk and I said some really awful things about our friend who was asleep in the next room. I would consider it possibly friendship-ending things – personal things about her and her marriage and about how I found her annoying during the trip. When I woke up and sobered up I realised we were probably not as quiet as we thought we were being, and there was a possibility she could have heard me through the walls. I'm overwhelmed with guilt as what I said wasn't stuff I feel deep down, or stuff I would want, or need, to say to my friend directly. She is an amazing person and is also going through a hard time at the moment. I have no idea why I said these things other than it being alcohol-fuelled bitchiness. She never mentioned it the next day, but I also haven't heard from her since the trip, which isn't completely unusual but has sent me into a bit of a panic. She's not confrontational so I don't think she would bring it up if she did hear – but now I'm not sure if I should mention the potential elephant in the room and ask her if she heard, or if I should move on and hope she was fast asleep that night. I'm so nervous for the next time we talk or see each other. Help! (And yes, this taught me a lesson about drinking and gossiping!)
I don't answer too many friendship questions in the column but I think this one is helpful to address because in all types of relationships, we can catch ourselves taking other people for granted, speaking about them unkindly, and being a subpar version of ourselves. When we transgress, when we hurt other people, when we disrespect other people – whether they're aware of our transgression or not – it gives us an opportunity to reflect on our ideal version of ourselves and our relationships; the reality of how we are individually and in relationship with others; and doing the work to bridge that gap wherever possible.
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You've already started doing the work, and that's important. It takes courage – the uncomfortable, self-confronting type of courage – to do what you're doing right now; to look clearly at your behaviour without excuses or sugarcoating and admit to yourself that you failed yourself, and you failed someone you care about. It's the first step in becoming a better friend and person, so well done on taking it.
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The next part of this journey is asking yourself how you got here, and what led to you saying friendship-ending things in the dark.
Think about what made you say these things – not just thinking about the content of what you said, but what was behind it. Have you been feeling stretched thin in this friendship, trying to support someone who's going through a hard time while quietly carrying your own overwhelm? Is it possible you've been feeling unacknowledged, or maybe even a little envious of her ability to be vulnerable and take up space in ways that you haven't allowed yourself to? Sometimes, when someone is in crisis, we rally around them – but a quieter part of us resents that rally. Not because we don't love them, but because we haven't checked in with our own needs in the process.
Or perhaps, if you're honest, a darker feeling crept in: a sense of relief that it's not you who's struggling, a flash of superiority or detachment – the kind we're often ashamed to name, but which live in all of us, particularly when we're tired, insecure or lonely. Judgment is after all, a well-worn shield for those exact feelings.
If your gut won't let you rest, then honesty might be the path to peace. You don't have to spill every detail
And what about beyond her? Have you been stressed? Unanchored? A little disconnected from yourself and others lately? When we gossip, it's often less about the person we're discussing and more about our own longing for closeness, control or a moment of power if we feel powerless in other parts of our lives. Did you find yourself falling into that old, seductive rhythm of saying something cutting to cement a bond with the person next to you? Have you done that before and if so, why? Is it discomfort with silence? A need to feel interesting or valuable? Do you worry that your presence alone isn't enough unless you're offering something sharp-edged, something that entertains?
These aren't easy questions. They're not supposed to be. But they are fertile ground for growth. And if you're willing to answer them – really answer them – then you will walk away from this moment not diminished by it, but transformed by it.
Now, let's turn to your friend, and what you can do.
If you genuinely value her, there are a few paths forward. One option is to quietly commit to change. Support her more fully. Show her you appreciate her through actions, not just words. Let this moment be a reminder that you have the capacity to undermine the very relationships you hold dear and that you need to watch that impulse – but also remember that you also have the power to choose differently.
But if your gut won't let you rest, then honesty might be the path to peace. You don't have to spill every detail. But you can say something like 'I've been reflecting since the trip and realised that lately, I've been operating from a place of stress and insecurity. I caught myself making comments about people – including you – that were unkind, unnecessary and not at all reflective of how I truly feel. I'm ashamed of that, and I'm working on the deeper reasons behind it. Whether or not you heard anything, I wanted to tell you because I care about you, and I don't want to be someone who talks about their friends like that. I'm sorry. And if you ever catch me doing it again about anyone, call me out.'
Or if you want to deep dive into transparency, you could say something like 'I love you, and I need to tell you something hard. One night on the trip, I said some judgmental things about you that I deeply regret. They came from a messy, unkind place in me – not from the truth of how I feel about you, which is full of love and admiration. Whether or not you heard them, I needed to say I'm sorry. I'm working on myself so I never put our friendship in that position again.'
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Whatever you choose, do it fully and wholeheartedly. If you reveal you spoke about her and she didn't already know, she may be hurt or angry at the revelation and there may be an impact on your friendship in the short or long-term. But on the other hand, if she does know and you don't say anything, you may be letting some deep damage become irreparable through silence and inaction. At least by leading with honesty rather than cowardice, you create the possibility for a friendship with much more trust, honesty and mutual respect that may be even deeper than before.
Think about who you want to be, and commit to a course of action that feels right. The feelings you are carrying right now aren't just guilt or anxiety that you betrayed a friend – they're a sign that you have betrayed yourself. Addressing this situation is an opportunity to become more aligned, more self-aware, and more intentional in your relationships. One mistake, even a sharp and painful one, does not define your worth as a friend. But how you meet the moment after the mistake? That's where your character truly lives. Befriend it.
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Photograph: Bryan O'Brien The name for this irreversible process is macular degeneration, and it's one of the most common causes of sight loss in the developed world. The age-related form is relatively well known, especially among older people. But it can also be genetic or associated with other conditions such as diabetes. In my case, it turns out to be inherited. I'm 62, the sort of age that looks young from the vantage point of 85 and ancient from the perspective of 25. Still, it's on the early side for age-related macular degeneration. So the doctors dug a little deeper. A DNA swab was sent to Finland, revealing a mutation in a gene called PRPH2, which produces proteins in the retinal cells. Apparently, this gene doesn't always do what it's supposed to do. None of this is entirely comforting, especially since no one in my family, as far as I know, has had these symptoms. (My siblings and children are now welcome to be tested if they so choose.) But it does provide a kind of explanation. More importantly, it adds a little more information to the worldwide project of genetic puzzle-solving that will hopefully lead to new treatments and therapies. And, more practically, it allows me to start making adjustments. These days I smile vaguely at anyone who passes me in the office. They could be a close colleague or a complete stranger, but it seems safer to be friendly than risk giving someone the cold shoulder. I no longer exercise my sacred birthright as a Dubliner to jaywalk, as the gaps in my field of vision mean I could easily miss an approaching vehicle. Instead, I wait stoically at intersections, relying on the green man and increasingly on the electronic beep. I carry a nifty little device that combines a torch and a magnifying glass, which allows me to read printed material such as price tags and receipts. Mr Magoo, the once-beloved cartoon character, has long since been consigned to pop culture's naughty step, alongside all the other ableists, racists and sexists. But I now better understand his predicament. There is a particular kind of comedy that emerges from misperception, though in real life it can be less amusing. I have said hello to empty chairs. Attempted to pour coffee into upside-down cups. I misread expressions. I fail to notice cues. These new, surprising social awkwardnesses pile up on top of all the old familiar ones. There are other losses, large and small. I can no longer follow the action in a football match or pluck a book from the shelf to check a reference. I deeply miss appreciating a film or a painting in the way its maker intended. Professionally, I feel the diminishment too. I once prided myself on having a 'good eye' for a photograph, a composition, a page layout. It was an important part of what I brought to the job. These days, not so much. And yet, something unexpected remains. One of the things that sight is supposed to give us – perhaps the most important – is human connection. A century of research tells us that eye contact, facial expressions and micro-gestures, play a crucial role in how we communicate. The shift to digital and remote communication has stripped away much of this subtlety, to our collective detriment. Or so the theory goes. Hugh Linehan whose left eye is amblyopic. He is now experiencing macular degeneration in his right eye, what he once called his 'good eye'. Photograph: Bryan O'Brien But my experience doesn't entirely bear that out. There are lapses in understanding, of course. I sat recently across from a podcast guest, someone for whom emotional intelligence is part of their personal brand. I could sense that they were giving me 'a look', but I had no idea what it meant. I was going through my new routine of taking my glasses off and putting them on again, which probably looked like an affectation. The usual feedback loop was broken. But we still had a conversation. Maybe I was just overthinking it. If, like me, you've ever been advised that for your own psychological wellbeing you need to spend less time trapped in your own head and more time engaging with the actual world, then the prospect of losing one of your senses presents a particular kind of challenge. The world is slipping away, just a little, just enough to notice. [ Genetic cures on demand: 'Within four weeks, the vision in his eyes had doubled' Opens in new window ] And yet, I'm not going blind. Macular degeneration affects central vision, not peripheral. A helpful information sheet advises me, rather grimly, I feel, that I 'will always be able to see sufficiently to walk around your house and your garden'. Another one says more encouragingly that most people 'can also make their way to town and do the shopping and other tasks with ease'. It's not the reassurance I might have wished for in my youth, but at this stage, I'll take it. The greatest moment of relief comes in mid-May when Emma Duignan, one of my two excellent and empathetic ophthalmologists (the other is Max Treacy), says the words I most need to hear: 'You'll always be able to read.' Not on paper, and the screens may need adjusting. The text might even grow to monstrous sizes. But the act itself – the miracle of text becoming meaning – will remain within reach. Jorge Luis Borges , whose vision was poor from childhood, lost his sight completely at the age of 58, having just been appointed director of the National Library of Argentina. He was surrounded by millions of books he could no longer read. In his essay, Blindness, he explored his condition not as a tragedy, but as a kind of destiny. Borges is the melancholic, ironic laureate of vision loss. I find his writing on the subject comforting and intimidating in equal measure. He described his world not as darkness, but as a 'greenish, cloudy mist', a perceptual veil rather than a void. For 25 years, he lived within that mist and continued to write with astonishing clarity. I cannot claim anything so profound. But I take some solace in the fact that unlike Borges, who died in 1986, I live in a time when sight loss is not what it once was. Surgical advances have transformed the lives of millions. Cataracts can be removed in half an hour. Laser treatment has liberated people from Coke-bottle lenses. Genetic research is moving with startling speed, hinting at future therapies that once seemed like science fiction. [ Blind no longer: 'For the first time in over a decade, I can see the world around me' Opens in new window ] And then there is digital technology. Audiobooks, screen readers, text-to-voice applications – anything can now be turned into robotic but perfectly intelligible audio within seconds. Admittedly, the experience of 'reading' in this way is different. It's slower, less immersive and rather less satisfying. But it's still reading, of a kind. And it remains a bridge to the world of ideas when my poor declining eye can't take the strain of a screen any more. A recent article in the New Yorker explored the new generation of assistive spectacles for deaf people that can turn conversations into real-time subtitles that unspool across the lenses. Would such a thing be possible for sight loss? It seems plausible. For the moment, though, I am just learning to see in a new way. Still in the world. Still fumbling and stumbling. Not able to see where I'm going, but still pressing on.
