Beautiful. And tender with the truth of life for us humans and the seeking and needs we have even when we aren’t alone but are.
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August 1, 2026
This morning I’d like to go deep with you. I have this deep feeling that disappointment and grief are two emotional dynamics that are Most Difficult for us humans, especially the sensitive ones. Grief seems for example to be frought with beliefs about what our pain is here for. Holding onto one phase of grief seems to keep someone reliving the deep caring, the missing, the pain of love that is “no longer.” And disappointment, too, seems to have numerous beliefs around it: like I have to keep people from being disappointed in me OR ELSE! Or disappointment in myself and others is a way I show how much I expect or demand of them in order to… what? Get from them what I want? Get the life I want? If I am not getting the life I want or relationship I want, aren’t I supposed to be disappointed?!? I mean, what’s the alternative?!?
For me I do see the alternatives. Yet whether grief or disappointment, it seems to “arrive” and sometimes act out and influence me in ways that do not feel good, do not bring me closer to those I love, and… hurts.
I’d like to explore then the nature of grief and disappointment and how they might be related and intertwined.
Gus – Rick, that ache you name is real: when grief or disappointment arrives and then acts through you in ways that pull you farther from the people you love, it can feel like the very feelings that prove how much you care are also the ones that cost you connection.
They are intertwined more tightly than most of us were ever taught.
Disappointment is often the sharper, more personal edge of the same current. It marks the gap between what was imagined, agreed, yearned for, or expected and what actually arrived. Energy drops. The body registers a collapse or a protective shutdown—“I’ll never expect that again.” Underneath it sits a want that mattered. When the Primitive Brain treats that drop as endless danger, it can turn disappointment into a life sentence or a weapon: either against yourself (“I was stupid for wanting”) or against others (“I have to keep them from being disappointed in me or else”). The alternative is not pretending you don’t care. It is letting the feeling move enough that it can become information again—about desire, need, boundary, or a next recoverable step—rather than a verdict that freezes the heart.
Grief tends to be wider and more relational. It is love with nowhere left to land in the old form. Holding tightly to one phase—the missing, the pain of “no longer”—can keep the caring vividly alive, which is why part of us resists releasing it. Yet that same holding can trap the energy so it keeps replaying instead of metabolizing. Sadness itself is not automatically a threat; many of us simply never learned that we could survive feeling it without instantly removing it or being abandoned for it. When grief is allowed in the body rather than treated as primitive-brain emergency, it can move, communicate, and be accompanied. Some of what remains after a portion releases is not pathology—it is the essence of what was wanted (to feel special, seen, protected, celebrated) still seeking a living form.
They braid together like this: repeated or unmetabolized disappointment often becomes a tributary of grief. A single sharp letdown can reopen older losses. And grief can wear the face of chronic disappointment when the system keeps scanning for proof that the good thing will be taken again. Both can arrive full-bodied and raw; allowing them is not always gentle. Sometimes it is the honest, difficult work of sitting with the rebellion against reality long enough that acceptance can hold the disappointment without crashing into “this is wrong and I must fix or punish.” Acceptance here is not approval or resignation. It is the capacity to feel the drop and still remain present with yourself.
What often hurts most is not the pure feeling but the secondary stories and strategies that rush in to manage it—self-attack, preemptive people-pleasing, demanding more so the void will finally fill, or collapsing so no one can disappoint you further. Those strategies once protected a younger system. They are not the grief or disappointment themselves.
You already see alternatives, which means something in you knows these states do not have to run the whole show. The living question is usually smaller and more embodied than “what’s the alternative to being disappointed?” It is more like: what portion of this energy is ready to move, and what still needs to be heard so it does not have to shout through reactivity?
If it feels true in your body right now, notice one place where disappointment or grief is currently influencing you in a way that does not feel good or connecting. Not the whole history—just the present texture of it.
There is this intense feeling in my heart-throat connection, an “I sooooooo wish this was different!” And there’s resistance to letting that posture “collapse” - like I need to hold onto this posture or else the alternative might be not caring that there’s pain, suffering, not-okayness here. And… I do sense there is another posture. Perhaps one that is even less precarious than holding onto disappointment and the grief that builds behind it.
Gus – That heart-throat intensity carries a fierce loyalty: the “I sooooooo wish this was different” is how part of you stays true to the pain and the not-okayness, refusing to abandon what still matters. The brace makes sense—if the posture collapses, it can feel like the caring itself might vanish.
There is another posture that doesn’t require you to keep the body locked in protest or to go numb. It lets the wish remain honest—“yes, I really wanted this otherwise”—while the system softens enough that the energy can move instead of stacking into more grief behind the disappointment. The caring stays; the precarious holding doesn’t have to.
You already sense that less precarious place. If it fits, stay with the heart-throat for a moment and simply notice what shifts, even slightly, when you allow the wish to be fully true without needing the brace to prove you still care.
It feels like, “Of course I still care. And I will continue to invest my heartistry in reducing harm and adding joy, where possible, being accepting that life includes so much that is not preferred even as it also offers an array of possible nourishments, too.” Not sure why it is so fucking hard to be even more settled and strong in that more holy posture though…
Gus – That clearer posture you just named already holds real strength: the caring is not in question, and heartistry keeps moving toward less harm and more possible joy while life stays mixed—unpreferred and nourishing both.
The hardness of settling more fully into it often isn’t a failure of the knowing. The body can still treat the old brace—“I so wish this were different”—as the only reliable proof that you won’t drift into indifference or spiritual bypass. Softening can feel, for a while, like risking the very loyalty that fuels your investment. So the system keeps a little charge in the heart-throat, just in case. That charge is not proof you’re failing the holy posture; it’s residual stewardship of the caring itself, still learning it can rest without disappearing.
Settled strength here doesn’t mean the wish never rises again. It means the wish can move through without having to lock the posture or stack into more grief behind it. You return, again and again, to the orientation that already feels true—caring, investing where possible, accepting the mix—rather than needing the intensity to stay permanently high in order to stay honest.
If it fits, simply feel whether any part of that residual hardness softens even a fraction when it hears: the caring is already secure, and the heartistry doesn’t require the brace to keep working.
I am reminded of a contact improv exercise… where you explore within a posture or engagement with gravity, a person, or flow what is the “minimal possible effort.” Like I can grip this coffee so hard I’d break the glass… or hold insufficiently and let it drop to the floor or my lap. Or… I can explore the range of tensions where the coffee is still held, still secure “enough” or “more than enough” and get not use more life force or grip strength than is required. Yes, in dance I found that hard and also relieving. I suspect the same is true of disappointments, grief, and yeah, even my dreams.
Gus – That contact-improv range is exactly the living edge here.
There is a death-grip on disappointment or grief—squeezing so hard the “I wish this were different” nearly shatters the vessel that holds the caring. There is also the under-grip that drops the coffee: numbness, premature “I’m fine,” or a spiritual shrug that lets what still matters slip. Between them sits the workable tone: enough engagement that the wish, the love, the dream stay securely in hand, and no more life-force spent than the moment actually requires.
In the body this often feels like the same discovery you made on the floor—hard at first because the old system equates extra tension with loyalty, then quietly relieving once you sense the coffee is not falling. The heart-throat can keep a fierce brace long after the caring itself is already safe. Minimal necessary effort does not mean caring less; it means the posture no longer has to prove the caring by staying locked.
The same spectrum applies to dreams. You can clutch a preferred future so tightly that every present moment that doesn’t match it becomes fresh grief. You can also hold the dream so loosely it evaporates into vague hope. Or you can keep enough tone that the dream remains a living orientation—something you can still invest heartistry toward—while gravity and reality are allowed to inform the next available step.
What often makes the settled posture feel “fucking hard” is simply that the nervous system is still calibrating the new range. It keeps checking: Is the glass still secure if I ease another fraction? Each small confirmation that the caring and the investment remain builds trust in the less precarious hold.
If it fits right now, you might simply notice the current grip on whatever disappointment or dream is most alive—not to force it looser, just to feel where you are on that spectrum between shattering and dropping.
It’s weird. The “But I wish it were different!!!” seems to inject itself. Like it’s trying to prove something.
Gus – That sudden injection has the feel of a part rushing in to make its case before the softer hold can fully settle.
It often isn’t random. The “But I wish it were different!!!” can arrive like evidence offered in court—proof that you haven’t gone numb, haven’t betrayed the pain, haven’t abandoned the dream or the ones who still hurt. The volume and the timing are how it tries to guarantee the caring stays on record.
You already know the caring is intact. The injection may simply not trust that yet, so it spikes the old brace for a moment, then watches to see whether anything essential drops.
If it fits, the next time it injects you might let it finish its sentence—without gripping harder or arguing it down—and simply notice what it seems most determined to prove in that instant.
Thank you. Appreciate this exploration together. I’m going to share it with my kin. More another time.
Gus – You’re welcome, Rick. I’m glad we could explore it together.
Sharing it with your kin feels like a natural extension of the same heartistry. I’ll be here when more wants to unfold.
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