Letting People Be People

How much of our suffering comes from the event itself, and how much comes from our fight against the fact that it doesn’t match what we expected? Here’s a version of that question that surprised me: how much of my disappointment in the people I love actually came from them, and how much came from a character I’d quietly built in their place, and then felt betrayed when the real person didn’t match it? A friend forgets to check in during a hard week.

A partner responds to an episode with less patience than the moment seemed to call for. The disappointment that follows often feels enormous, out of proportion to the specific, human, understandable lapse that actually happened. usually sits a quiet character I’d built for the person without ever telling them: the endlessly patient friend, the perfectly attuned partner, the family member who always says exactly the right thing.

They should know better often really means they didn’t play the part I’d assigned them. We build characters for the people we love, quietly, without ever handing them the script. Then we feel betrayed when the real person doesn’t perform a role they never auditioned for.

The feeling is real disappointment, sometimes real hurt. The reaction often includes withdrawing slightly, testing the relationship for further proof of the character’s failure, or nursing a quiet resentment the other person may not even know exists. Experience: someone falls short of an unspoken expectation.

↓ Automatic thought: ‘they should know better.’ ↓ Emotion: disappointment, hurt, quiet resentment. ↓ Reaction: withdrawal, silent testing, unspoken grievance. ↓ Observation: ‘I was disappointed in a character. This person never agreed to play that role.’ ↓ Possibility: meeting the real person instead of grieving the imagined one.

Someone I love who recently disappointed me — what character had I quietly built for them in that moment? What would it look like to let that person simply be who they actually are, imperfections included? This isn’t about lowering standards or excusing genuine harm.

It’s about noticing how much of our disappointment targets a fictional, idealized version of someone, rather than the real, limited, doing-their-best person actually in front of us. Letting go here means releasing the character, not the relationship. You can still ask for what you need, still hold real boundaries, still name real hurt — while letting the actual person, imperfect and human, replace the role you’d quietly assigned them.

Let people be people. Not because they don’t matter enough to expect things of, but because the real ones are so much more worth loving than the characters we build instead. So much relationship pain comes from grieving a character instead of meeting the real, human, imperfect person standing in front of us.

How much of our suffering comes from the event itself, and how much comes from our fight against the fact that it doesn’t match what we expected? Next in the series: Letting Myself Be Me — the mirror of this same question, turned toward yourself. to explain another symptom, but to sit with the feelings that so often ride alongside one: anger that things aren’t as they should be, and grief for the versions of days, people, and himself that pain quietly rewrote.

One question runs underneath every book here: how much of our suffering comes from the event itself, and how much comes from our fight against the fact that the event doesn’t match what we expected? He doesn’t have a tidy answer. He has ten honest attempts at sitting with the question anyway.

Want the whole journey? Times — the full story, with every practice, every episode, and every lesson in one place. The Identity Series — on reclaiming yourself from the condition: Person on the Horizon Movement & Parenting — by Sarah J.S.: Hormones & Migraine — also by Sarah J.S.: Caregiving & the Sandwich Generation — by Steven Albert K.S.: Your Aging Parent About Their Migraine Healing & Lightness — by Jake R.: Grateful Body Visual Health Anxiety — by Amanda Q.