Disappointment.
It’s one of the hardest things to deal with—because it’s so quietly loud. It doesn’t always scream at you. Sometimes it just settles into your chest like a weight that won’t move, whispering things you wish you didn’t believe.
Today was a disappointing day. Not earth-shattering, not catastrophic. Just heavy. I lost out on a home I’d been working on for a client. One we really thought would be the right fit. I should be used to this by now, right? Real estate is full of wins and losses. But this one stung more than I expected.
And here’s the thing—my brain didn’t rush to blame anyone else. It didn’t make excuses. It did something much more painful.
It turned inward.
What did I miss?
How did I not see that?
Why didn’t I do better?
Am I letting them down?
That spiral. You know the one.
And it reminded me of something I see almost every day—just in smaller bodies.
One of my sons, when asked to take out the trash, sighed deeply and said, “I’m just a servant now.” He had plans, you know—an elaborate Lego fortress was mid-battle, and the call to garbage duty felt like betrayal. Another one of my boys went off the rails the other day—screaming, cussing, fists clenched—because the punishment wasn’t fair. He didn’t start it, so why was he the one being held accountable?
It would be easy to dismiss their reactions as childish.
But my wife, in her quiet wisdom, keeps reminding me of this: what they’re yelling out loud is just what we’ve learned to keep inside.
We’ve just mastered the art of hiding it.
We don’t scream (most days). We don’t cry on the kitchen floor (at least not where anyone sees). But that doesn’t mean we’re handling it better. Sometimes we’re just burying it better. Until it catches up with us—through a harsh word to someone we love, through another drink, through a retreat from relationships we used to care about. Through silence that builds walls we don’t even realize we’re constructing.
Disappointment doesn’t get easier. It just gets sneakier.
And I don’t have an answer for it today.
I don’t have a three-point list for dealing with it or a Bible verse wrapped in a bow that makes it all better. I just have the rawness of it. I’m sad. I’m frustrated. I’m angry at myself. And I’m choosing not to stuff it down this time.
Instead, I’m naming it.
Because I think that’s how we grow.I think that’s how healing begins—by letting others into the disappointment instead of covering it with productivity or pretending it didn’t affect us.
And I think, maybe, that’s what I want to model for my kids more than anything.
Not perfection. Not calm. Not spiritual clichés.
Just presence.
Just truth.
Just a willingness to feel and sit with them in their pain—and with myself in mine.
I want to echo truth to my kids when they’re struggling. I want to speak life and love, not to fix it, but to walk alongside them. And I want to hear that same truth from others when I need it most.
We don’t need polished answers. We need permission to feel.We need people who don’t run when the tears or tantrums start.
Today, I needed to say this out loud:
I’m disappointed.
I’m hurting.
And I’m going to keep showing up anyway.
That’s all I’ve got.
And I think maybe, for today, that’s enough.