Disappointment Fatigue

A friend joked today that I hate men.

I laughed.

But it wasn't the first time someone had said it.

Apparently, from the outside, Mercy doesn't want to marry.

Mercy hates men.

Mercy is probably better off alone.

And I kept thinking about it long after the conversation ended.

Because what if people aren't actually seeing that I don't want love?

What if they're seeing what disappointment has made me look like?

There is a difference between: "I don't want this." And: "I don't know if I can survive wanting this again."

I think I know the second one very well.

And it's not only about men.

It is friendships.

Work.

People.

Plans.

Expectations.

Life.

I've become tired of being disappointed by things I genuinely cared about.

Because I know what it feels like to want something badly.

To pray about it.

To work towards it.

To imagine it.

To tell yourself, this could actually happen.

And then it doesn't.

Or it happens differently.

Or it takes years longer than you thought.

Or you finally get the thing you spent years chasing and somehow you're still standing there thinking,

"Okay... what's next?"

After enough of that, something changes.

You don't necessarily stop wanting things. You just stop letting yourself want them too loudly.

You learn to keep one foot outside the dream. Just in case.

You get excited and immediately remind yourself not to get too excited.

You make plans, but leave enough room for them to fall apart.

You care about people, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you're already preparing for the day they might disappoint you.

You start saying things like: "Let's just see how it goes."

"I don't want to get my hopes up."

"Anything can happen." (Literally whispered this even I was writing this)

"Whatever happens, happens."

And everyone thinks you're being realistic. Maybe you are.

But sometimes I wonder if realism is just what disappointment looks like after it has happened too many times.

Sometimes the most painful part isn't that things didn't work out. It's that you were hopeful before they didn't.

There is something strange about repeated disappointment. The first time, you are shocked. The second time, you're hurt. Eventually, you start preparing.

You don't need someone to disappoint you anymore. You can do it yourself.

You lower the expectation before they have the chance to. You convince yourself you don't care before you have to discover that you cared too much.

You tell yourself not to expect anything. Not because you don't want anything. But because wanting something gives it the power to hurt you.

And maybe that is what disappointment fatigue really is. Not simply being disappointed. But becoming so familiar with disappointment that you begin organising your life around avoiding it.

I think I've done this more than I like to admit. Sometimes I wonder if I have deliberately stopped myself from putting my whole heart into things.

Not because I don't care. Sometimes because I care too much.

If I don't fully believe in it, it can't completely break me.If I don't imagine the future too clearly, I won't have to grieve the version that never happened.

If I don't call it the one, I won't have to mourn it when it isn't. If I don't expect the friendship to last forever, maybe its ending won't hurt as much.

If I don't expect work to recognise me, maybe I won't be disappointed when it doesn't.

If I don't expect people to show up for me, maybe I won't notice when they don't.

There is safety in expecting very little. But there is also a quiet sadness in it. Because eventually you realise you've been protecting yourself from disappointment by refusing to fully participate in hope.

And I think that is the part nobody really talks about. We talk about heartbreak. We talk about betrayal. We talk about failed relationships and failed businesses and missed opportunities and unanswered prayers.

But what about the person who has become afraid to be excited?. The person who has learned not to celebrate too early?. The person who gets good news and immediately starts looking for the catch?. The person who wants something desperately but cannot bring themselves to say it out loud?.

The person who says, "I'm fine with whatever happens," when the truth is that they are terrified of wanting something they might not get.

Maybe they aren't pessimistic. Maybe they're tired.

Sometimes I think we mistake guardedness for confidence.We call detachment maturity. We call low expectations wisdom.

We admire people who seem unbothered. But sometimes "I don't care" really means: "I cared once, and I don't know if I can afford to care like that again."

Sometimes indifference isn't the absence of feeling. It's an excess of it.

Sometimes the person who seems least affected has simply become very good at containing their expectations.

And maybe that's why this thing with men bothers me. Because I don't hate men. I think I've seen enough disappointment to know that love can hurt.

I've seen enough of life to know that wanting something doesn't guarantee receiving it. And perhaps some part of me has decided that the safest thing is to want less.

But I don't want to become someone who is so afraid of heartbreak that she never allows herself to be deeply loved.

I don't want to become so afraid of disappointment that I stop expecting anything beautiful from people.

I don't want to become so good at protecting myself that there is nothing left for life to surprise me with.

Because the problem with protecting yourself from disappointment is that disappointment isn't the only thing you keep out. You also keep out anticipation. Excitement. Wonder. Possibility. That ridiculous, almost embarrassing joy of believing: "Maybe this will actually work."

You keep out the version of yourself who makes plans without immediately calculating the probability of failure.

The version who gets excited about a person. Who believes in a friendship. Who wants a particular life. Who says, "I really want this," without immediately adding, "But it's okay if it doesn't happen."

Maybe I've become too good at the second sentence.

I don't think the answer is to become naive. I don't think we should trust everyone.

I don't think every relationship deserves another chance.

I don't think every dream will come true if we simply believe hard enough.

Some people will disappoint us.

Some people will leave.

Some opportunities will never happen.

Some prayers will be answered differently from how we hoped.

Some versions of our future will never exist.

That's life.

I know that.

What I am still learning is whether there is a way to know all of that without becoming afraid to hope. Whether I can say:"This might not work, and I still want it."

"This person might disappoint me, and I will still allow myself to love them."

"This dream might fail, and I will still give it my best."

"I might get hurt, and I will survive it."

Because maybe courage isn't believing that disappointment won't happen. Maybe courage is knowing that it might, and refusing to let that possibility make every decision for you.

I think I'm still somewhere in between. Still learning the difference between wisdom and fear.Between discernment and detachment. Between knowing that anything can happen and quietly expecting nothing good to happen.

I still catch myself holding back.

Still telling myself not to get my hopes up.

Still trying to want things without wanting them too much.

Maybe that's what happens when you've been disappointed enough times. You don't necessarily stop dreaming. You just learn to dream quietly.

But I don't know if I want to live quietly like that forever.

I want to believe that there are still things worth getting excited about. People worth trusting. Dreams worth pursuing. Love worth risking.

Not because I am certain they won't disappoint me. But because I am beginning to understand that disappointment is not the only possible ending.

Maybe something can go right.

Maybe someone can stay.

Maybe the thing I've been afraid to want can actually happen.

And maybe, if it doesn't, I will hurt.

But perhaps I will survive that too.

Maybe I'm still learning that protecting your heart doesn't always mean keeping it behind a wall. Sometimes it means trusting yourself enough to know that even if life breaks your heart again, you will still be able to put it back together.

I don't know if I've learned how to hope again. But perhaps that's the question I'm sitting with: How do you protect your heart from disappointment without teaching it to stop reaching for anything at all?

All my love,

Star Girl Mercy ❤️