At the beginning of the year, I began writing a blog post on my learnings about managing disappointment in 2020. A few weeks ago, my computer somehow deleted everything I’d written. I struggled to regain momentum but, after having some discouraging races the past couple of weekends, the subject has unfortunately been fresh on my mind. It is quite true that God seldom allows us to comfort others with lessons He hasn’t already taught us (over and over again :).
Two weekends ago, I ran a 2k as part of a fast 3k race in Phoenix. As soon as the gun went off, the pace felt jolting and my legs were abnormally fatigued. It was still a solid race effort, but definitely not how I expected to feel based on workouts. After reflection, I brushed it off as a result of the unusually intense previous week of training, then refocused on the full 3k race I’d run the following weekend.
As the 3k approached, my mindset was positive, body prepared, and spirit excited to showcase all the work I logged in Flagstaff. When I arrived at the track it was windy, but I didn’t think much of it given the temperature was almost perfect for a distance race. But once again, as soon as the race started, I felt pretty uncomfortable (usually the first 3-4 laps of a 3k should feel somewhat controlled). Despite my efforts to “just stay with the pacer”, I ended up running 20 seconds slower than my goal time. Typically, a bad 3k in February is not something to cry about. But this one really upset me — it’s been a long time since I’ve raced to my potential and I truly thought this would be a good one.
Photo credit: Andrew Neugebauer, Xendurance
I find that after a disappointment, my greatest needs are emotional and relational — I need to feel that I’m loved even when I don’t perform. But human beings, myself-included, are often unsure how to respond to another person’s sadness. We either immediately try to fix it or say nothing at all. Since neither of those are helpful (for me, at least), when I’m feeling negative emotions internally — especially after the vulnerability of a race — I often do my best to maintain positive emotions externally, so as not risk feeling separated from others.
But there’s a long-term cost to stuffing feelings like disappointment. My husband works as a Clinical Sport Psychologist and sees this day-after-day — unprocessed emotions don’t simply disappear, they just manifest themselves in some other form, at some other time, usually beneath our awareness.
I learned this lesson the hard way a couple years back, when an injury prematurely ended my season. I knew I felt frustrated and disappointed about the setback itself, but what I didn’t realize was my emotional pain was actually much deeper. This struck me while catching up with a mentor, Olympic chaplain John “Ashley” Null, a few days after my coach and I decided to call the season. I shared with him my state of affairs — how deeply I believe my best running is still ahead, yet how hard and long a road it’s been. He listened intently as I poured out my heart, and after I finished he paused meaningfully and asked, “Do you think making another Olympic team will satisfy your emotional needs?”
As if I hadn’t already wept enough, the tears flowed and I sat there speechless. He touched on something I never recognized — subconsciously, on the heart-level, I believed that making the Olympic team (“success”) would resolve my distress. Intellectually, I understood that only the unconditional love of God can offer lasting fulfillment, but emotionally I wasn’t there yet.
As we continued talking, I realized, since Rio, I had been telling myself an incomplete story. I was living in the narrative that I was (and still am) genuinely thankful for the unexpected experience God gave me at the Olympics, therefore I was content with what happened there. But deep down, I also felt disappointment. Disappointment at the reality that I wasn’t able to release all my hard work on the Olympic stage, and that returning to full physical form has taken much, much longer than I ever imagined. Unbeknownst to me, I had stuffed the feeling of grief resulting from my unmet expectations. My heart was still wounded.
Ashley explained to me that athletes manage emotional pain in three basic ways: 1) controlling their mental game; 2) controlling their performance; 3) controlling their body. In this case, I was responding to the pain of disappointment by trying to control my performance, fearing I couldn’t be content without another Olympic opportunity. It wasn’t working, because it wasn’t meant to work. “The only thing that fights fear,” Ashley said, “is emotional dependence on God.” Only within the presence of reckless, never-leaving love can we find healing for our pain.
But what does this look like, practically? We can give and receive this never-leaving love with real people. Throughout that conversation with Ashley, he modeled to me the exact point he was making: he gifted me his undivided presence and attention, creating a space for me to feel. His nonjudgmental, patient, curious love, in that moment, represented the unconditional love of God toward me. Sometimes it’s with my husband, sometimes my parents, sometimes my closest girlfriends — whomever we’re with, the healing power of relationship is that we can be known at our most vulnerable, and still loved. (see Curt Thompson’s book, The Soul of Shame)
But because no human being can perfectly love, there’s nothing like coming before God himself with our disappointment. As modeled in the book of Psalms, this process is called lament — presenting before God our complaint, inviting Him into the pain, then ultimately remembering our hope in Him (or, communicating our desire to hope in Him where we don’t yet). Put simply by writer Andy Crouch, “it’s a way of holding together grief and hope.”
Within many-a-setback, I’ve been too stubborn to fully admit my hurt to God. But after the 3k, I spent much of the plane ride home journaling and praying in lament, releasing every raw feeling to God, reading Scripture and reminding myself who God is and what’s true. I was a puddle by the end — my seatmates might’ve cared, but I didn’t. I was still sad about my race result, but renewed in hope and joy.
Face to face with unconditional love, we realize a truth. That thing we so desired and didn’t get? It’s not any less important — it just pales in comparison to the joy of being loved. That’s what allows us to get back on the horse and try all over again.