Disappointment

Tonight, I’m disappointed.

I’m sad for the place in life I’m at.

You see, I’m 26.

Not freshly 26. Oh, no.

On the verge of expiring 26.

And I, like the vast majority of those willing to be vulnerable, longingly await a husband.

For years, the expression of this desire has made me feel weak.

After all, am I only a real woman with a man?

And doesn’t expressing my intrinsic longing for deep, long-term connection make me a silly girl who’s lost and misguided by her emotions?

Of course not.

But that’s how I feel.

Dates don’t seem to work out.

People who like me don’t get me.

And people who get me don’t seem to like me in a romantic way.

And the vast majority are simply looking for a hookup in our throwaway culture.

But here I am.

Still wishing.

Still hoping.

Doggy-paddling for dear life as to not drown in a self-made sea of despair.

And doing my damnedest to not lose heart.

Unfulfilled expectations.

Defeat.

Discouragement.

Deferred hope.

Disappointment.

So many words to express one emotion.

Most of us try to minimize moments of disappointment in our lives.

And I get it; I really do.

But I can’t help but wonder, is that making us less compassionate?

Is it aiding in our rapidly declining desire for these types of relationships?

(with significant others or friendships or with our neighbors on the streets)

Is our attempt to not look “weak” or not get hurt actually keeping us from experiencing the inexplicable beauty of fully knowing each other?

Even as I bask in my disappointment, I’m not angry at it, like I used to be.

I’m learning to embrace it.

Because that means my heart is still soft.

It means I’m not calloused and accustomed to the ways of this world but instead, I am holding on to a hope I cannot see, holding out for a promise that, though I doubt at times, I can’t help but continue to believe for.

I want to still feel the weight of disappointment when the next person comes and doesn’t stay.

I want to feel the pain of the next promise someone breaks.

Not because I’m some sadistic weirdo who enjoys the pain (unless it’s in the last few moments of a workout).

But because I want it to mean something.

I want to know that my heart still places faith in people, in their promises.

That my heart still hopes for the best in the midst of darkest dark.

That I am still holding fast to the one thing that makes us indisputably human:

Hope.