Here is the paradox no one warns you about: You clean up your life. You cut back on drinks. You start sleeping properly. You move your body every day. You finally begin to feel like your best self — strong, stable, even joyful.

And then your social life completely falls apart.

This isn’t a sob story about losing friends because I became a worse person. If anything, I became better — calmer, more focused, more grounded. I stopped blacking out at parties, ghosting people, crying over existential dread at 3 am in someone’s kitchen. I started waking up early, drinking electrolytes, training like I meant it. Nine hours a week, minimum. Cycling, running, swimming, strength workouts — the whole performance athlete starter pack.

And I am proud of that. I am proud of how far I have come. But the truth is, when I stopped partying, I lost more than hangovers. I lost people.

Friendships that used to revolve around Thursday nights and Friday regrets began to fade. Group chats became silent. Invitations stopped coming. Somewhere between my first pair of cycling shoes and my third Apple Watch update, I became that girl. The one who says no. The one who leaves early. The one who isn’t fun anymore.

And it stings.

Especially when your job, like mine, involves being everywhere. As the founder of The Sandy Times, I am constantly attending events, launches, shows, previews, after-parties I didn’t ask for. And still, I somehow squeeze in nine hours of training a week — which means there is zero time left for aimless brunches or spontaneous beach days or dinner at 10 pm "because it is European."

My calendar is a war between self-discipline and social expectations. And more often than not, discipline wins. But it doesn’t always feel good.

No one talks about how becoming "healthy" can be isolating. How self-improvement sometimes means self-exile. Because the fitness influencers sell you a dream: glow-ups and wellness and aesthetic salads and some perfect group of soul-aligned friends who love green juice and recovery days.

But in reality? You go to bed at 9 pm. Alone. You scroll through stories of your old friends at a rooftop bar and wonder if you have made the right choice. You miss them. Even if you don’t miss that version of you.

Some days, yes. When I crush a long run, when I climb Jebel Jais on my bike, when my body feels capable and my mind feels clear — yes, it is worth it.

Other days, I feel like I have built this amazing, upgraded version of myself… and there is no one left to share it with. And that is the part I want to talk about. Because we glorify transformation, but we rarely acknowledge what it costs. Sometimes, the cost is community. Or at least the community you used to know.

You grieve it. First of all. Let yourself be sad. Let yourself miss the chaos. It was fun for a reason. Then, slowly, you start rebuilding. You find new rhythms, new rituals, maybe even new people — the kind who don’t flinch when you say “I can’t, I have intervals.” The kind who text “proud of you” instead of “you’ve changed.” The kind who understand that health isn’t just a routine — it is a way of relating to yourself, and the world, more intentionally.

It takes time. And it is hard. And no, it doesn’t always get easier.

But I think — I hope — it gets deeper. Because I had rather have two friends who meet me for a sunrise coffee post-ride than twenty who only recognise me under strobe lights.

And on the lonelier days, I remind myself of this:

I didn’t lose friends because I got boring.

I lost friends because I stopped needing to escape my own life.

That isn't something to mourn.

That is something to be proud of.