When Disappointment Replaces Tears

There comes a moment when pain no longer looks like crying.

It no longer looks like arguments, pleading, or emotional outbursts.

It becomes quiet. Heavy. Settled.

That’s where I find myself now.

For many, many years — and I mean years — I have walked the same emotional road with the same person. I tried understanding. I tried patience. I tried shrinking myself, softening my words, excusing behaviour, hoping for change. I accepted things that should never have required acceptance, simply because I believed love meant endurance.

But something has shifted.

I no longer cry.

I’m no longer angry.

I’m no longer fighting.

I’m disappointed.

Disappointment is different.

It comes when you realise that the other person is not unaware — they are unwilling.

Unwilling to change.

Unwilling to take responsibility.

Unwilling to be accountable.

Instead, there is pride.

Deflection.

The blame game — always someone else’s fault, always a reason, never reflection.

And it makes me ask the hardest question of all:

Could things be the way they are… because you are the way you are?

Not because life is cruel.

Not because others are unfair.

But because you refuse to look inward.

Because growth requires honesty — and honesty feels threatening to pride.

I’ve realised something painful but freeing:

I did not tell anyone to hurt me the way they did.

But I allowed it — not because I deserved it, but because I was afraid to let go.

Afraid of what happens when you stop trying to save someone who is lost.

Afraid of what it means to stop carrying responsibility that was never yours.

Recently, I was reminded of a scene from Alice in Wonderland.

Alice finds herself lost in a maze and asks the Cheshire Cat,

“How do I get out of here?”

The cat asks,

“Where are you going?”

Alice replies,

“I don’t know.”

And the cat simply says,

“Then it doesn’t really matter.”

That moment struck me deeply.

How do you help someone out of a maze when they don’t know where they want to go?

How do you restore someone who doesn’t want restoration?

How do you keep pouring into someone who refuses to imagine a different future?

I realised I’ve been doing what only God can do.

Trying to restore.

Trying to rescue.

Trying to repaint something black into something soft and bright — when it doesn’t want to change its colour.

And that is not my job.

It was never my job.

I cannot heal what refuses accountability.

I cannot guide someone who won’t choose direction.

I cannot save someone who doesn’t believe they need saving.

Letting go doesn’t mean I stopped caring.

It means I stopped bleeding.

It means I finally accepted that love does not require self-abandonment.

That boundaries are not cruelty.

That peace sometimes comes when you step back and let God take over what only He can transform.

This isn’t bitterness speaking.

It’s clarity.

And clarity, though quiet, is powerful.

I am choosing to release what is not mine to carry.

To trust God with restoration.

To stop fighting battles I was never meant to win.

Because healing begins when you stop trying to fix what refuses to change —

and start honouring the life, peace, and wholeness God is calling you into.

Releasing What Is Not Yours

“Commit your way to the Lord; trust in Him, and He will act.”

— Psalm 37:5