Dealing with disappointments is clearly not my forte. And over the years I’ve realised, it isn’t the actual bad news that kills you, what’s really brutal is all the hope that’s built up right before it.
It’s perhaps one of the reasons I’ve turned into such a cynical person.
If there is no hope, there can’t really be any disappointment, now can there?
But what kind of a life is that to live, really? One where there’s no wonder or hope or joy. One where you aren’t looking forward to things just because you might not be able to handle it if they don’t happen the way you had expected them to?
And yet, I’ve realised, that joy-less, hope-less, cynical life is an act of self preservation, one where my world doesn’t come crashing down, one where I don’t find myself struggling to hold back tears or to pretend to continue with my day like all my hopes and dreams haven’t just been shattered.
Yeah, I don’t really like that feeling, do you?
Brene Brown and her books on vulnerability don’t really tell you how to deal with this now, do they, before they encourage you to step out into the arena and get your ass kicked?
So make sure you have an iron-armoured ass. Because there’s definitely a lot of kicking.
And it hurts.