At 29, I’m Cutting Back on Friendship – It Costs too Much Money
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This year, I’ve attended a lot of themed parties. The fairytale one meant buying a pair of wings to wear. For the tube-stop concept, I managed to cobble together a dog outfit (I went as Barking).
And as more of these events fill my calendar, I’ve realised that seeing friends comes with increasingly high costs. A cake and a card for birthdays won’t seem to do it, and turning up isn’t just about showing someone you care; get-togethers have become perfectly curated Instagram posts and TikTok choreographed events that often come with full weekend itineraries. 
Celebrations feel more performative than fun. This year, the hashtag #themeparty has been used in over 3950,000 TikTok posts, with an average of 5 new posts an hour. And with the expectation to dress up and go all out for every occasion often comes a new outfit, a big bill and a lot of anxiety – this was once reserved for weddings, which at least are a little less frequent.
With inflation rising, rents creeping up every few months, and the cost-of-living crisis hitting everyone’s wallets, what should be a simple night out with friends feels like a financial balancing act. That latte you once grabbed on the way to work is nothing compared to the £45 vegan tasting menu you’re quietly expected to order on a Friday night just to catch up with the group.
We all laughed in 2022 when TV presenter Kirstie Allsopp claimed young people could afford to buy a house if they just cut back on things like Starbucks, Netflix and gym memberships. But three years on, it’s not about skipping a flat white to save for a deposit. It’s about scraping together enough cash just to get by.
This month, I upgraded my living situation and moved into a new apartment in north London with a friend. Just renting, sadly, I haven’t won the lottery yet. I knew the higher rent and bills would come with sacrifices. I’m about to turn 29, work long hours remotely, and I need somewhere calm to call home. I was ready to give up my monthly waxes and overpriced iced lattes to afford a better place to live. But is it reasonable for me to cut back on my friends?
Being a good friend used to mean writing an essay-length birthday card and resisting the urge to say “I told you so” when the same guy broke their heart (again). It was silently hating the work nemesis you’ve never met, and listening to a five-minute voice note about last night’s disastrous date. These days, though, the expectations are bigger – and a lot more expensive.
Instead of one birthday dinner crammed into someone’s flat, we’re now sent itineraries for entire weekends, often in remote countryside manors or, worse, abroad. Nights out are no longer at Spoonies but involve £14 cocktails, club entry fees, and Ubers once the Tube stops running. Even the classic house party now has a theme and mandatory costumes, so it can be edited into a slick TikTok montage. Quite frankly, it’s exhausting. No one wants to be the “cheap friend,” and I’m wracked with anxiety throughout the extravagant dinner or from the moment the party invitation lands in my inbox.
When did friendship start costing so much? When did saying no to a 29th birthday trip to Ibiza make you the bad guy? When did homemade cakes with too much buttercream get replaced by multi-tiered creations bearing quippy slogans, made by one specific baker in south-west London? This seems to be the reality of life in your late twenties and early thirties in London, although friends in Manchester and Edinburgh complain about similar experiences.
There’s the pressure from social media, where lavish hangouts are made to look the norm and so we all attempt to follow suit. Then, of course, there’s the fact that everything is just more expensive these days. A study on The Cost of Friendship by Vanquis found that “Social connection is essential for our emotional and mental health, yet people are being priced out of regular catchups with friends.”
Friendship has quietly become a financial minefield. Brits are facing what many refer to as the “friendship tax”, with some spending more than £200 per month just to socialise. Once a marker of closeness, expensive dinners, nights out, and picture-perfect parties are now causing burnout and backlash. I know friendships that have ended because one person wouldn’t attend week-long wedding celebrations in Mexico.
New research by Thortful shows 39 per cent of Brits now prefer low-key, at-home birthdays with family, while one in 10 celebrate solo, rising to 20 per cent among Zillennials, which they link to the growing costs of such celebrations. Not only can we barely afford to attend birthdays, but many of us can’t afford to host them, either. Some admit to cutting back on meals out (14 per cent), scrimping on food shops (12 per cent), or even skipping therapy sessions (5 per cent) just to show up for friends.
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After moving into my new flat, I banned myself from takeaway coffees, cancelled my pilates membership for a cheaper local gym, and vowed not to buy new clothes until 2026. But it still isn’t enough, because the real purse-breaker is splitting the bill evenly when I’ve had two diet cokes and others have gone through three bottles of wine. I don’t mind them drinking, I just mind paying for it.
As we get older, our social circles shrink, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing. It might be the only way to survive in this economy. Adulthood brings one unexpected cost after another, but perhaps the biggest one is friendship itself. As a result, perhaps our social circles will start narrowing to only those within the same income class. We start to dread social situations rather than look forward to them. Upon meeting new people, it’s hard not to consider the cost of adding to your social circle, thereby limiting yourself from the joys of new friendships.
Of course, all this isn’t to say we should abandon our friends entirely; there are ways to survive the “friendship tax” without going broke. Hosting low-key nights in, suggesting potlucks instead of fancy restaurants, or swapping overpriced cocktails for drinks at home can make socialising manageable. But that’s not always the simplest solution when you’re limited by things like space and location.
I used to pride myself on expanding my circle, always following up with a “we should grab drinks!” text after meeting someone new. Now, I’m more selective. I’ve learned the value of my time, and now I’m learning the value of my money too. If friendship comes with a financial burden, I’d rather invest in the ones who are happy with pesto pasta and a Netflix night in.
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