Lent 2025 Day 26: The Cup of Love, Broken Expectations & Brave Endings
- Flannel Diaries
- Apr 3
- 4 min read
“Trickery and treachery are the practices of fools that have not the wits enough to be honest.”
– Benjamin Franklin
I had an Oprah “A-ha” moment the other day while listening to a podcast. The speaker said:
“When you give someone your cup of love and they dump it out, maybe it’s not about what’s wrong with them. Maybe it’s about why you gave it to them in the first place.”
That hit me hard. It wasn’t about blame, it was about accountability—my accountability. Why do I choose people who can’t hold what I’m offering? Why do I see red flags and still hand over my whole damn heart wrapped in tissue paper?
It reminded me of a conversation I had recently with a friend about unrealistic expectations in relationships. That maybe I broke my own heart, not because they were cruel, but because I kept hoping they’d become someone different—someone better. I wanted them to meet me where I was, and they just couldn’t.
We fall in love with potential. We get caught up in the fantasy version of a person. And when reality doesn’t match, we cling harder instead of letting go. We tell ourselves, “If I just love harder, more patiently, more unconditionally…” Like our love is some magical spell that’ll transform them.
It doesn’t work that way. People will always disappoint us—not because they’re bad, but because they’re human. Messy. Insecure. Afraid. And usually, so are we. So we set them up to fail. We hand them our needs and expect them to just know how to hold them.
Breakups wreck me. Even when they’re mutual. Even when I know it’s the right thing. Even when the relationship stopped serving me long before it ended. There’s still grief. There’s still the echo of what could’ve been.
When I asked my mom why she stayed with my dad after finding out about his affair and his other kids, she looked at me and said, “How was I supposed to support four kids? Aren’t you happy I stayed?”
I didn’t answer her, but in my head, I thought, No. I’m not.
I hated knowing she sacrificed her own happiness for us. That she stayed in something unfulfilling because she thought she had to. That kind of martyrdom weighs heavy, even if it was done out of love.
No one should feel trapped in love. Love, real love, should feel like freedom.
I’ve been reflecting a lot on who I give my love to. I don’t give it recklessly—but I give it fully. And when it’s not received with care, it’s not just painful—it’s exhausting.
My housemate and I recently had a conversation about the book Brave New World. When I first read it as a teenager, I thought it was beautiful. Heartbreaking. Perfect. I loved that the ending didn’t wrap things up neatly with a happy bow. It was the first time I realized not every story has to end in happily-ever-after to be worth telling.
As a teenager, I identified with John—the “Savage”—and his resistance to the comfort and control of the World State. It made me question conformity, happiness, and the cost of living in a world where everything is manufactured to numb pain. That concept of Soma—the drug they used to keep people docile and “happy”—was terrifying and fascinating.
When I re-read it in my 30s, it hit differently. I had lived more. I understood the longing for escape. I understood the allure of avoiding pain. But I also saw the cost. I saw how easy it is to settle into a life that looks good but feels hollow. How choosing discomfort, grief, and struggle is sometimes the most honest—and liberating—thing we can do.
That’s what John chooses in the end. Chaos over comfort. Pain over numbness. Authenticity over artificial joy. And yeah—it’s a tragic ending. But it’s real. And real is always better than fake happy.
I bring up the book because it reminds me how much perspective changes with time and experience. The way you love at 20 isn’t the same as the way you love at 50. Or at least, it shouldn’t be. The heartbreaks shape you. The choices shape you. You learn to listen more closely to your gut, even when your heart tries to drown it out.
I know who I am. I know what I bring to the table. I bring the whole damn table. If someone can’t hold my love with care, that’s on them—not me. And if they dump it out? I’ll be sad, sure. But I won’t be empty. Because I’m not pouring from a cup that needs filling. I’m pouring from a place of overflow.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: don’t settle. Don’t shrink. Don’t keep handing your love to people who don’t have the hands—or the heart—to hold it.
Love bravely. Even if it breaks you. Because one day, someone will see you, fully, and say: “Thank you. I’ve been looking for this kind of love.”
And even if they don’t, you’ll still be whole.
Lenten Reflection: Brave Love, Honest Endings
“Sorrow is better than laughter, because a sad face is good for the heart.” — Ecclesiastes 7
Lent isn’t just about sacrifice—it’s about truth. The kind that strips you bare. That asks: Are you loving bravely? Are you being honest with yourself?
🔹 What pain am I numbing with fantasy, comfort, or old habits?
🔹 Who do I keep choosing out of fear instead of love?
🔹 Where do I need to be more honest—with myself, or with someone else?
This season, may you choose truth—even when it hurts. May you love fiercely—even when it risks heartbreak.
And may you find peace—not in perfection, but in presence.
📖 Read more reflections: flanneldiaries.com
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