Latest / Second Chances: Stories of Survival, Recovery & Starting Over / Softening the Blow: How to Gently Adjust Your Expectations | Second Chances
Transcript
- You know that specific, heavy drop in your chest when you realize the day isn’t going to go exactly as you planned? It’s not just frustration; it’s a quiet grief for the version of reality you were holding onto. I want you to take a deep breath with me right now. In through the nose, and out through the mouth. Good. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how much energy we spend building these intricate little castles in our minds before the sun even comes up. You wake up, and you have this mental itinerary. The meeting goes well. The traffic is light. The coffee shop has your favorite pastry left. The conversation with your partner flows without a hitch. It’s not that you’re being demanding or difficult. It’s that you’re trying to create safety. We think if we can predict every step, if we can map out every outcome, then nothing will hurt us. But life has a funny way of laughing at our maps. And when the plan falls apart—which it always does, eventually—we don’t just feel annoyed. We feel like we’ve failed. Like we lost control. But what if I told you that the disappointment isn’t a sign of failure? What if it’s just a signal that you need to adjust your grip? Let me tell you about Tuesday last week. Or maybe it was Wednesday. Time gets a bit blurry when you’re running on fumes. I had this big presentation prepared. I had rehearsed it in the shower, in the car, while making dinner. I had visualized the nodding heads, the approving smiles, the sense of professional validation that I’d been craving for months. I walked into that room feeling like I was carrying a shield made of preparation. And then, halfway through my second slide, my laptop froze. Not a minor glitch. A total, unresponsive crash. The screen went black. The silence in the room was so loud I could hear my own heartbeat thumping against my ribs. My first instinct wasn’t to problem-solve. It was shame. Hot, prickly shame. I felt exposed. I felt like I was standing there naked in front of everyone, waiting for them to see how unprepared I really was. But here’s the truth I realized in that freezing moment: I hadn’t been preparing for the work. I had been preparing for the applause. And when the applause didn’t come, I collapsed. That collapse is what we call disappointment. But it’s only disappointment because we attached our worth to a specific outcome. We built an expectation so rigid that when reality bent, we broke instead of bending with it. So, how do we cope? How do we move through that ache without letting it define us? It starts with something I call gentle adjustment. This isn’t about lowering your standards or giving up on your dreams. It’s about loosening the vice grip on how those dreams arrive. Think of your expectations like water. If you try to force water into a mold that’s too small, it spills everywhere, making a mess and leaving you frustrated. But if you shape the container to fit the water, it flows smoothly. When I sat there with my frozen laptop, I had to make a choice. I could stay stuck in the fantasy of the perfect presentation, mourning the loss of that validation. Or I could adjust. I could look at the people in the room and say, 'Well, the technology failed me, but the ideas are still here.' I put the laptop down. I spoke from memory. It was messy. It was imperfect. There were pauses where there shouldn’t have been. But it was real. And strangely, it was more powerful than the polished version would have been. By adjusting my expectation from 'perfect delivery' to 'authentic connection,' I saved the moment. I stopped fighting reality and started working with it. This applies to the small things, too. The things that happen when no one is watching. Maybe you planned to cook a gourmet meal after a long day, but you come home exhausted and just want to order takeout. The disappointment hits hard, doesn’t it? You feel lazy. Unproductive. Like you’ve let yourself down. But ask yourself: who made the rule that you must cook? Was it a promise to your future self, or was it a performance for an audience that isn’t there? When we adjust our expectations gently, we give ourselves permission to be human. We acknowledge that fatigue is real. That hunger is real. That sometimes, the best dinner is a bowl of cereal eaten over the sink. It’s not about settling for less. It’s about recognizing that your needs change faster than your plans do. The person you were at 8 a.m. is not the same person you are at 8 p.m. Honoring that shift is an act of self-respect, not surrender. I want to offer you a tiny practice for the next time you feel that sharp sting of disappointment. It’s called the soft landing. When the plan fails, pause. Don’t rush to fix it, and don’t rush to judge yourself. Just notice the feeling. Say to yourself, 'I am disappointed. This hurts. And that’s okay.' Then, ask one simple question: 'What is available to me right now?' Not what I wanted. Not what I thought would happen. What is actually here? Maybe the answer is a cup of tea. Maybe it’s five minutes of silence. Maybe it’s calling a friend. By shifting your focus from the lost ideal to the present reality, you reclaim your power. You stop being a victim of circumstance and become a participant in your life. It takes practice. Some days, the old habits of rigidity will kick in. You’ll find yourself gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles turn white. That’s fine. Just notice it. Breathe. Loosen your hands. One inch at a time. You are learning a new language, the language of flexibility, and it feels awkward at first. But it sounds like freedom. I remember a friend of mine, Sarah, who used to panic when her garden didn’t bloom exactly as she’d sketched it in her journal. She’d measure the soil pH three times a day. She’d worry about every leaf. One year, a late frost killed half her prize roses. She sat on her porch and cried. It was ugly, raw crying. But then, something shifted. She looked at the remaining buds, struggling but alive, and she realized she loved the resilience of those flowers more than the perfection of the ones that died. She started composting the dead stems. She planted wildflowers instead, which came back stronger every year. She learned to love the unpredictability. Her garden became less manicured and more magical. It taught her that beauty often hides in the cracks of our plans. When we adjust our expectations, we open our eyes to the beauty that was already there, waiting for us to notice it. We stop looking at what’s missing and start seeing what’s growing. Thank you for spending this time with me. Remember, you don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to be willing to adjust, gently, kindly, toward yourself. I’ll be right here next week, ready to listen. Take care of that beautiful, imperfect heart of yours. Bye for now.