Swirling Feelings of Disappointment

My Embrace of the Tao to Overcome Them

It came as a text message. One paragraph. Not rude. Not overtly cold. But unexpected and sobering.

The kind of message that, while seemingly benign, arrives like a silent sucker punch. The kind that doesn’t just hit your phone but slinks into your nervous system, rearranging your evening, altering your sleep, and dragging you headfirst into the cave of familiar hurt.

I laid there, not angry, just…stung and confused having misread the other person. Not quite sure what had shifted, only that something had.

The words themselves weren’t dramatic, but the energy was different. Pulling back. Contracting. And there I was, once again sitting with disappointment—the kind that doesn’t scream but simmers in the quiet.

It got me reflecting not just on this moment, but on a pattern. A lifetime of “almost” in friendships and budding relationships. The people who seemed drawn to my light, my spirit, my depth—only to drift, retreat, or vanish when I offer something real.

I used to think my problem was trusting too easily. Lately, I’ve come to believe the deeper truth is this — I’ve often over-given. Not in obvious ways. But energetically. Offering my presence, my insight, my attention, my care—sometimes unconsciously hoping it might be reciprocated.

And when it’s not? So disappointing.

The Tao Te Ching reminds us: “Expectations are the root of the heart’s suffering.” Lao Tzu didn’t phrase things like a therapist, but he understood human nature. We suffer not because people let us down, but because we mentally wrote a script they didn’t follow.

In my case, the script often sounds like: “I’ve shown up with openness, so surely that will be honored.” But Taoism teaches that life unfolds without regard for fairness. It doesn’t bend to our effort. It flows on its own terms.

When we grip tightly to a desired outcome, we become brittle. But when we flow with what is, we conserve energy, we become like water—resilient, adaptable, whole.

Buddhism echoes this wisdom with surgical clarity. The Second Noble Truth notes that suffering arises from attachment. Not love itself but the clinging, the craving, the “I need it to be this way” impulse that lives in the mind.

What I’ve learned through meditation and mindful reflection is that disappointment is a signal. A neon-flashing alert that I’ve become attached to an end result. An image. An outcome that felt safer than sitting in the unknown.

And that’s where the practice comes in. Not to suppress disappointment but to drain it. I sit with it. Let it have its say. I breathe. I don’t try to transmute it into wisdom too quickly.

I walk—sometimes for miles—letting the rhythm of my body bring me back to the earth. I journal, not to explain the other person, but to excavate the subtle contracts I may have been making without awareness. Like, “If I give you my time, maybe you’ll see my value. If I hold space for you, maybe you’ll hold space for me.”

Stoicism, in its no-nonsense tone, reminds me of this: “You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” (Marcus Aurelius). In other words, I cannot control how someone texts, calls, loves, or fades. But I can control how I interpret their behavior. The disappointment doesn’t come from their silence—it comes from my meaning-making machine spinning stories at 3 AM.

It also teaches that what is not within our control is not truly ours to lose. That means the approval of others, the preservation of friendships, the blossoming of intimacy—none of these are guaranteed. They are gifts when they arrive, but not possessions to keep. If I make them my identity, I suffer every time they shift.

I’ve started asking harder questions of myself lately. Like, why do I still confuse giving with proving? Where do I fear being invisible unless I’m of use? What would it mean to give cleanly—without needing to be seen, needed, or praised?

Disappointment, for all its sting, has become a strange kind of teacher. It keeps inviting me back to the truth, namely, that my worth is not a negotiation. It is not a currency to be traded for affection. The Tao says, “Those who are centered remain steady.” When I’m centered, I don’t contort. I don’t audition. I don’t rush to fill silences or soothe discomfort with over-functioning.

I simply stand in the quiet, grounded in my being.

So the text? It still lingers. I won’t pretend I’m entirely over it. But I’ve drained enough of the disappointment to see more clearly. I’m not here to be everyone’s lesson, healer, or holding place. And I’m no longer interested in building connections on a foundation of over-extension.

This time, I’m honoring the sting. Letting it teach me. Not harden me, but wise me up.

There's freedom in that. It tastes like peace.

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