Many of us, myself included, suffer from disappointment because we hold ourselves to high standards. We expect a lot from ourselves and from our work. For many reasons, we have a hard time feeling that what we do, accomplish, or produce lives up to what we think it should be. This internal sense of what we expect is divorced from others’ expectations. Those around us– boss, colleagues, co-worker, family, friends– are amazed, impressed, or satisfied. They tell us what we’ve done looks great. Internally though, it does not quite measure up. Worse, even on the rare occasions that those expectations are met, the joy is fleeting. We struggle to dwell in our accomplishments, or take satisfaction in them. Instead, our focus shifts almost immediately to the next goal, the next metric, the next step, the next iteration. Like our shadow, the feeling of almost follows us wherever we go.
This chronic dissatisfaction manifests in different ways. Sometimes, it drives us to chase the next achievement, hoping that it may deliver the balm of at least semi-durable satisfaction—but it rarely does, because the bar keeps moving (and the bar is arbitrary anyway). Even as we grow and achieve, we don’t feel like we’ve arrived. Sometimes, the gap between where we are and where we think we should be becomes a source of suffering. This is independent of where we actually are or what we have, because the measurement is not an objective measure against external reality, but against our shifting expectations. Chronic dissatisfaction can feel like anxiety, a gnawing feeling of always missing something. It can feel like depression, like the sisyphean dilemma of being surrounded by satisfaction but never actually knowing what it is.
There’s no simple solution to this. One approach is to lower expectations; many people who describe themselves as happy attribute their contentment not to success, but to modest or even nonexistent expectations. If we don’t expect to eat today, a meal brings joy. If we expect futility, then any progress feels like movement. There’s something liberating about letting go of grand visions. But low expectations carry their own challenges– they can dull ambition, drain motivation, and limit our sense of possibility. If we expect little from ourselves, we may protect ourselves from disappointment—but also from deep engagement and growth. Moreover, even if we set the intention of lower expectations, this might be much easier said than done.
We could try to hold no expectations. This mindset—of openness, curiosity, and non-attachment—can insulate us from disappointment. If we hold no assumptions about what should happen, we’re less rattled by what does happen. While this might be a helpful direction in which to move, it is probably not something we can actually do. Our brains are meaning-making, pattern-seeking machines. We forecast, predict, prepare, make inferences, and draw conclusions. Even when we try to suppress expectations, we often form them unconsciously. It’s difficult to get through our day-to-day life if we hold no expectations. Will the water flow from the faucet? Do we expect to be able to speak, think, move, remember, and perform? Holding expectations lightly is a worthy goal, but truly having no expectations does not seem realistic.
If disappointment is the gap between expectations and reality, focusing on how we view the gap itself, rather than the bounds of that gap (expectations and reality) might be more fruitful. Maybe we should move towards accepting disappointment—to see disappointment not as a failure, but as a natural part of caring deeply. If we hold ideals—about our creative output, our impact, our growth—then of course reality will fall short. The problem isn’t the disappointment itself; it’s when that feeling overshadows our ability to appreciate what is good. Put differently, we can reset our expectations about the gap itself. Falling short of our ideal doesn’t mean we’ve failed, it means we care deeply. We can understand the gap is an inevitable part of the path we are on. Monet and Michelangelo were often deeply disappointed in their own work, sometimes destroying their creations out of frustration. Talk to any craftsman—someone who builds cabinets or houses or decks—and they’ll often see only the flaws, even in work that looks flawless to others.
Mindful self-compassion can be deeply useful in this space. I like to define this as “talking to yourself the way you’d talk to a friend.” Most of us maintain interior monologues far harsher than anything we’d ever say to someone we love. If Michelangelo felt he fell short, the issue has more to do with the artist than the art. But what if we looked at our own work—our own progress—through the eyes of a trusted friend or mentor? What would that person say about our creation? Probably, something far different from what we would say about our own creation.
Cultivating equanimity—trying to be less attached to the result– can also help. This doesn’t mean we stop caring. It means we begin to shift our focus from outcome to process. We can still have goals, still put in effort—but with less attachment to the result. Equanimity allows us to keep showing up, even when things don’t go our way. It lets us feel disappointment without being defined by it. Over time, more equanimity helps us feel less tied to the result relative to our expectation.
Given the impermanence of life, our views on this, and where we get stuck, is bound to change. This means there is not a best way forward, but there are options and insights. To create and to care about our creation is to fall short. It is an inherent part of the process. Every artist, every builder, every doer lives with the gap between the idea and the execution. But the courage to keep creating anyway—to keep trying, keep caring, keep engaging— is perhaps easier to muster if we are not surprised by the gap between our vision and the reality of what emerges. If some level of disappointment is inevitable, it is foolish to try to outrun it. Instead, it is an inherent part of love, of creating, and of hope in a better world.
Cheers,
Doc
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