Disappointment is an emotion we don’t talk about very often in recovery.

We talk about shame. We talk about guilt. We talk about anger, fear, and loneliness. But disappointment often sits quietly in the background, shaping the way we think without us ever recognizing it.

In many ways, disappointment is the gap between what we expected and what actually happened.

“I thought I’d be further along by now.”

“I thought my marriage would be better.”

“I thought the cravings would be gone.”

“I thought if I prayed enough, God would take this away.”

Those disappointments can become dangerous if they go unprocessed. Left alone, disappointment often grows into discouragement. Discouragement can become hopelessness. And hopelessness is fertile ground for relapse.

One of the principles I often share with clients is this:

Behind every behavior is a feeling. Behind every feeling is a need.

When someone relapses, the question is often, “What happened?”

A better question may be, “What disappointment was never processed?”

Perhaps they were disappointed in themselves after making another mistake. Perhaps they were disappointed that a spouse wasn’t responding the way they hoped. Perhaps they were disappointed that recovery wasn’t producing the life they imagined.

The relapse may be the behavior, but disappointment may be the feeling underneath it.

Disappointment and expectation

Disappointment often invites us to examine our expectations. Expectations themselves aren’t the problem. Healthy relationships require them. The question is whether our expectations are healthy.

Unhealthy expectations usually share one or more of these characteristics. They are unspoken—we expect others to know what we need without ever communicating it. They are rigid—there is only one acceptable outcome. They are unrealistic—we expect people to give what they simply cannot. Or they become demanding—they shift from “I hope this happens” to “You owe me this.”

When expectations become unspoken, rigid, unrealistic, or demanding, disappointment is almost inevitable. But when they are communicated honestly, held with humility, and grounded in reality, they create opportunities for understanding rather than resentment.

Disappointment with Yourself

Most people in recovery know this feeling well.

You hit thirty days and thought you would feel different.

You reached one year, but your anxiety is still there.

You find yourself struggling with thoughts you assumed would be gone by now.

It’s easy to begin believing statements like:

“I’ll never change.”

“This is just who I am.”

“I always mess this up.”

Notice how quickly disappointment can become an identity statement.

There’s a world of difference between saying, “I’m disappointed that I relapsed,” and saying, “I’m a disappointment.”

One is an honest emotion.

The other is a false identity.

Recovery requires learning to tell the truth without allowing the truth to define who we are.

Disappointment with Others

Many people entered addiction carrying years of disappointment.

A parent wasn’t emotionally available.

A spouse betrayed their trust.

A church failed to protect them.

A friend walked away when they needed someone most.

Those experiences often become beliefs:

“People can’t be trusted.”

“I’m on my own.”

“If I need someone, I’ll just get hurt again.”

Those beliefs naturally push us toward isolation.

The tragedy is that isolation feels safe, but healing happens through connection.

Not everyone is safe. Healthy boundaries matter. But refusing to trust anyone because someone disappointed us only keeps the wound alive.

Disappointment with God

This may be the hardest disappointment to admit.

Many Christians quietly carry thoughts like these:

“I’ve prayed for years.”

“I’ve begged God to take this away.”

“I’ve tried to obey.”

“So why am I still struggling?”

Unfortunately, many people believe those thoughts are sinful simply because they are directed toward God. They hide them, hoping that pretending everything is fine somehow demonstrates faith.

Yet Scripture tells a different story.

Job questioned God.

Jeremiah poured out his frustration.

Lamentations gives voice to overwhelming grief.

David repeatedly cried, “How long, Lord?”

Even Jesus quoted Psalm 22 from the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Notice what these people did.

They didn’t leave the conversation.

They brought their disappointment to God instead of allowing disappointment to drive them away from Him.

That’s biblical lament.

Lament is not rebellion.

Lament is honest relationship.

I sometimes wonder if God is less concerned with the emotions we bring Him than with whether we bring them at all.

Many people in addiction have spent years hiding—from others, from themselves, and even from God.

Recovery invites something radically different.

Honesty.

You can’t have intimacy without honesty.

God already knows your disappointment. He isn’t asking you to hide it. He’s inviting you to bring it into the relationship.

Disappointment often reveals an expectation that wasn’t fulfilled.

Sometimes those expectations are realistic.

Sometimes they’re assumptions we’ve made about how God should work.

Either way, disappointment becomes an opportunity to examine not only our circumstances but also our expectations.

Choosing Hope

Hope is not pretending disappointment doesn’t exist.

Hope is choosing to remain engaged even when life hasn’t turned out the way you expected.

Recovery is rarely a straight line.

Relationships aren’t instantly restored.

Healing takes longer than we’d like.

Growth often feels painfully slow.

Yet every day we choose honesty instead of hiding, connection instead of isolation, and truth instead of shame, we are moving forward—even when it doesn’t feel like it.

Disappointment doesn’t mean recovery isn’t working.

Sometimes disappointment is simply exposing where we’ve placed our expectations.

Instead of allowing disappointment to convince you to give up, let it become an invitation to ask deeper questions.

What expectation wasn’t met?

What need is underneath this feeling?

What story am I beginning to tell myself?

Who is safe enough for me to talk to about this?

And perhaps the most important question of all:

Am I allowing disappointment to drive me away from God, or am I bringing it honestly into my relationship with Him?

The people who experience lasting freedom are rarely those who never become disappointed.

They are the ones who refuse to let disappointment have the final word.

Instead, they allow it to become another place where God meets them with truth, grace, and hope.

When I was released from prison, I was required to attend group therapy.

I had to pay a weekly fee. I had to show up consistently. If I didn’t attend or didn’t pay, I could be violated and sent back to prison.

To be honest, there were times I resented it.

Sometimes money was tight. Sometimes I had other things I would rather have been doing. Like many people who leave prison, I was tired of being told where to go, what to do, and how to live.

One day, while meeting with my parole officer, Agent Gilbert, I was complaining about how long I was going to be required to attend these groups.

She listened for a while and then asked a question that has stayed with me for years.

“Are you going to group because I am making you, or because you don’t want to be that screwed up jerk you were for years that harmed other people?”

At the time, I wasn’t sure how to answer.

But looking back, I realize she wasn’t asking about group attendance.

She was asking about motivation.

Many of us begin recovery because we have to.

We attend meetings because our marriage is in trouble. We go to counseling because a judge orders it. We install accountability software because someone is watching. We stop drinking because our health is failing. We begin recovery because the consequences have become too painful to ignore.

There is nothing wrong with that.

Consequences often get us through the door.

The problem is that compliance alone can’t produce the life most of us are seeking.

Compliance asks: “What do I have to do?”

Transformation asks: “Who do I want to become?”

There is a huge difference between those two questions.

A person can attend every meeting, complete every assignment, and follow every rule while remaining angry, resentful, isolated, and emotionally disconnected. They may change their behavior without ever changing themselves.

That’s one reason I find the older brother in the story of the Prodigal Son so fascinating.

Most of us focus on the younger brother who ran away. Yet the older brother had his own problem.

He stayed.

He obeyed.

He followed the rules.

But when his brother returned home, resentment poured out of him. His words revealed a heart that felt trapped by obligation rather than transformed by relationship.

Many people in recovery find themselves in the same place.

They are compliant.

But they are not connected.

A couple years after my parole ended, something unexpected happened.

I found myself missing those groups.

Not because I was afraid of relapse.

Not because anyone was making me attend.

Not because I feared consequences.

I missed the people.

I missed the honesty.

I missed the safety.

I missed being around men who knew my story and allowed me to know theirs.

So I started looking for another group.

And I have been attending groups ever since.

Sometimes I joke that if I live to be 100 years old, one of the young punks in my group will be pushing me in a wheelchair so I can get into the meeting.

People occasionally push back on that idea.

They tell me they want to do what they need to do and move on.

I understand that perspective.

I don’t believe everyone needs to attend a recovery meeting for the rest of their life.

But I do believe everyone needs healthy community.

The meeting isn’t the point.

Connection is.

Years ago, Nate Larkin shared something that has always stayed with me.

He said, “Every morning when I get out of bed, I’m just as close to the ditch as the last time I acted out. I’ve just learned to keep the car between the guardrails better.”

I can relate to that.

I’m not scared of the ditch.

But the ditch still exists.

That’s why I often describe recovery as a road trip.

We’re all traveling in different vehicles, but we’re heading in the same direction.

If I see someone drifting toward the guardrail, I blow the horn and try to get their attention.

If they hit the ditch, I pull over.

Others pull over too.

We help push the car out.

We change the tire if needed.

We knock a few dents out.

Then we all get back on the road together.

And perhaps most importantly, I’m traveling with people who would do the same for me.

That’s what transformation looks like.

It isn’t living in fear.

It isn’t pretending the ditch doesn’t exist.

It isn’t proving how independent we are.

It’s learning to travel with others.

Years ago, I attended group because I had to.

Today, I stay connected because I want to.

Somewhere along the way, recovery stopped being about compliance and became about connection.

And that made all the difference.

What about you? Has there been a point in your recovery where your motivation changed from “I have to” to “I want to”?

If so, what made the difference?

Content Note: Today’s article discusses pornography and masturbation in the context of recovery.

For years I have journaled using four simple questions:

What am I feeling?

What am I thinking?

What am I doing?

What am I thinking about doing?

I have used a four question journaling outline for over a decade but I settled on these four questions about six years ago.

I got these check in questions from a group I am a part of called Samson Society.

At first, the questions seemed almost too simple. Most days my answers looked pretty ordinary. But over time those daily entries became something valuable. They became data.

I had experienced freedom from pornography for more than six years. That was a huge victory in my recovery journey. Yet I still struggled with masturbation. It frustrated me because I couldn’t understand why one area of my recovery seemed stable while another continued to be a challenge.

As I reviewed my journals, I noticed a pattern. If I acted out, it was often on Wednesday.

That discovery raised a new question.

Why Wednesday?

I couldn’t think of anything unique about Wednesdays. Then I realized Wednesday was payday. Maybe there was a connection. I wasn’t sure, but I decided to pay closer attention.

The next Wednesday, I took a notebook to work and recorded observations throughout the day. Nothing stood out. Work was normal. My interactions seemed normal. My mood seemed normal.

Then I left work and headed to Walmart. That was a regular stop on payday.

As I turned into the parking lot, I noticed something I had never paid attention to before. My neck and shoulders were tense.

I parked and started paying attention.

I noticed people driving the wrong direction through one-way lanes. I noticed near misses and aggressive driving. Inside the store, I found myself navigating crowds, long lines, and frustrated customers. Many parents seemed overwhelmed. Children were running through the aisles. The checkout lines were long because many lanes were closed.

By the time I got back to my car, I was irritated.

By the time I got home, I was angry.

By the time evening arrived, I was looking for relief.

That observation changed the way I thought about recovery.

For years, I had focused on the behavior. I wanted to understand why I was acting out. What I eventually discovered was that I needed to understand what was happening before I acted out.

The behavior wasn’t appearing out of nowhere.

The behavior was responding to something.

To test my observation, I shopped somewhere else for a month. The difference was noticeable. My stress level was lower. The tension I normally felt after shopping was greatly reduced.

Now, I want to be careful here.

I’m not saying the people at that Walmart were the problem. Many of the customers appeared to be dealing with significant financial stress and life challenges. When people are struggling, stress often shows up in attitudes and interactions. We all know what it is like to be tired, overwhelmed, worried about money, and less patient than usual.

What I discovered wasn’t that certain people were causing my recovery struggles. What I discovered was that a particular environment consistently affected my nervous system in ways I hadn’t recognized.

That realization taught me an important lesson.

Many people think relapse begins when the urge appears.

I don’t think that’s usually true.

More often, relapse begins when stress starts building and goes unnoticed.

The urge may be the first thing we recognize, but it is often one of the last things to appear.

By the time I arrived home on those Wednesdays, I was looking for relief. Pornography and masturbation had become familiar ways to manage tension, frustration, and anger.

That distinction matters.

If I believe my problem is sexual desire, I’ll spend all my energy fighting urges.

If I recognize that my problem is unaddressed stress and dysregulation, I can begin addressing the actual issue.

One of the greatest gifts journaling has given me is pattern recognition.

The journal helped me discover something that had become normal. I had likely experienced that same tension for years without noticing it. The tension in my shoulders, the frustration in the parking lot, the irritation at the checkout line—none of it seemed important in the moment. But together they created the perfect conditions for acting out later.

Recovery accelerated when I stopped asking, “Why did I relapse?” and started asking, “What patterns show up before I relapse?”

That shift changed everything.

The four questions I still use today are not just about recording information. They help reveal patterns that would otherwise remain hidden.

What am I feeling?

What am I thinking?

What am I doing?

What am I thinking about doing?

Those questions helped me discover that my struggle wasn’t beginning in front of a computer screen.

It was beginning in a Walmart parking lot.

What patterns might your journal reveal if you started paying attention?

Follow RW Coaching for more recovery content. You can learn more at RW-Coaching.com or email me at RWCoaching2@gmail.com.

If addiction is an attempt to solve a problem, then the next question becomes:

What problem?

Most people initially answer that at the surface level.

Stress. Work. Marriage. Temptation. Opportunity.

Those things matter—but they’re not the root.

The real problem usually isn’t what’s happening around us.

It’s what’s happening inside us.

This is where I come back to a phrase I use often:

Behind every behavior is a feeling.

Behind every feeling is a need.

If we want to understand addiction, we have to slow down enough to look underneath it.

Start with the behavior.

Whatever it is—alcohol, pornography, food, scrolling, work.

Then ask:

What was I feeling right before that?

Not what you were thinking. Not what you were telling yourself.

What were you actually feeling?

Anxiety? Loneliness? Shame? Anger? Restlessness? Pressure?

Most of us were never taught how to identify that, so this step alone can feel unfamiliar.

Then comes the deeper question:

What did I need in that moment?

Maybe it was: comfort, connection, relief, rest, a sense of control or a way to escape something overwhelming

Those are real needs.

But when we don’t know how to meet them—or it doesn’t feel safe to—we reach for something that will do it quickly.

That’s where the behavior steps in.

Over time, the brain starts to connect the two.

Feeling → Behavior → Relief

And the loop gets stronger.

Not because you’re weak.

Not because you don’t care.

But because your brain is doing exactly what it was designed to do—solve problems and reduce distress.

This is also why it’s not just a “knowledge issue.”

For many people, it’s not that they didn’t know better.

It’s that they didn’t have: a safe environment, healthy modeling, permission to feel or the ability to regulate what was happening inside them

You can’t practice something you were never taught.

So what does recovery look like?

It’s not just removing the behavior.

It’s learning how to respond differently when the same feelings show up again.

Because they will.

The difference is, over time, you begin to recognize what’s happening.

You can name it.

And instead of automatically reacting, you begin to choose your response.

That’s where real change happens.

Not at the level of behavior alone…

but at the level of understanding, feeling, and need.

So instead of asking:

“How do I stop this?”

You might start asking:

“What am I feeling?”

“What do I actually need right now?”

“Is there a way to meet that need that doesn’t cost me?”

Recovery isn’t just about stopping something.

It’s about learning a new way to live with what’s going on inside you.

And it starts by understanding what the behavior has been trying to do for you all along.

There’s a tension in recovery that a lot of people struggle to hold.

On one side, we know the truth:

Addiction costs us. It damages relationships. It takes us places we never intended to go.

So we say, “This has to stop.”

And that’s right.

But on the other side, there’s another truth that often gets ignored:

Addiction is understandable.

Not acceptable.

Not harmless.

But understandable.

And if we miss that, we miss the doorway to real change.

Most people don’t wake up one day and decide to create chaos in their lives.

What actually happens is much quieter.

Something begins to build internally—pressure, anxiety, loneliness, shame, anger, even boredom.

And there’s no clear way to deal with it.

No language for it.

No permission to express it.

No safe place to process it.

So the brain does what it’s designed to do—it looks for relief.

And when it finds something that works, even temporarily, it holds onto it.

That’s where addiction begins.

I often say it this way:

Addiction is an attempt to solve a problem.

Not a good solution—but a real one.

That doesn’t excuse the behavior.

But it does explain why it keeps happening.

Because if something works—even for a moment—the brain remembers.

And the next time that pressure shows up, it reaches for the same solution again.

This is why simply focusing on stopping the behavior doesn’t usually work long-term.

If we don’t understand what the behavior has been doing for us, we’ll keep finding our way back to it… or to something else that does the same job.

That’s also why people often “switch addictions.”

Take one away without understanding it, and something else steps in.

Now, some people will hear this and get uncomfortable.

They’ll think, “So you’re saying addiction is okay?”

No.

No addiction is justified.

You are still responsible for what you do.

There are still consequences.

And change still matters.

But here’s the other side:

You don’t change what you don’t understand.

And shame, by itself, doesn’t create lasting change.

It might create short-term compliance.

It might even create fear.

But it doesn’t teach you what to do instead.

So recovery begins with a different kind of question.

Not:

“What’s wrong with me?”

But:

“What problem was I trying to solve?”

That question doesn’t let you off the hook.

But it does begin to point you in the right direction.

Because once you understand the problem…

you can begin to find a better solution.

And that’s where we’ll go next.

For years I lived in hiding.

I was in ministry for more than 20 years, and somewhere along the way I learned a dangerous lesson: struggle, or admitting struggle was unsafe.

I believed that if people truly knew what was happening inside me, I would lose everything. So I learned to manage appearances. I learned how to perform. I learned how to compartmentalize. I learned how to keep painful parts of myself hidden.

That is exhausting work.

Addiction is not only fueled by the behavior itself. It is fueled by secrecy. The hiding becomes its own prison.

Every conversation carries fear.
Will someone notice?
Will they ask questions?
Did I reveal too much?
Can I keep the image together one more day?

Over time, the addiction and the hiding become deeply connected. The shame grows stronger, and shame always pushes us toward isolation.

Then my addiction was exposed publicly.

I went from being in church on Sunday to sitting in a jail cell on Thursday. I would spend the next two years there.

It was terrifying.

But something happened sitting in that jail cell.

A friend I had once been in ministry with came to visit me. Early in the conversation he asked:
“What the hell were you thinking?”

The truth was, I wasn’t thinking clearly at all. Shame had me trapped. Fear had me trapped. Isolation had me trapped.

But during that conversation, I shared something that has stayed with me ever since. Something that eventually became part of my recovery work with others.

I told him:
“Sitting here in this jail cell, I feel more freedom than I’ve felt in years.”

Not because jail was freedom.
Not because consequences felt good.
Not because I was happy about what had happened.

I felt freedom because everything was finally out in the open.

There was nothing left to hide.
Nothing left to protect.
Nothing left to fear being exposed.

That may sound strange to people who have never lived under the crushing weight of secrecy. But many people in recovery understand it immediately.

The addiction creates pain.
But the hiding creates exhaustion.

In recovery circles there is a phrase:
“The gift of desperation.”

I understand that phrase now in a way I never could before.

Desperation strips away the illusion that image management can save us. It forces us to face the reality that healing and hiding cannot coexist for long.

This does not mean we confess everything to everybody.

That is not wisdom.
Not everyone is safe.
Not everyone needs every detail.

But someone needs to know.

One of the most important lessons I learned in recovery is this:
I cannot survive in isolation.

I don’t stand on a soapbox and publicly confess every struggle in my life. But I have learned that I must confess everything to someone.

For me, recovery required safe relationships where I could stop performing. Places where I could tell the truth without trying to control how I appeared. Places where I could admit fear, anger, shame, temptation, grief, exhaustion, and failure.

Because healing begins where hiding ends.

This is one reason confession matters so deeply in recovery. Not because humiliation heals us. Humiliation often creates more shame.

What heals us is integration.

The hidden self and the public self no longer have to stay divided.

The energy once spent managing appearances can finally be used for honesty, grief, repair, growth, and connection.

That doesn’t erase consequences.
It doesn’t instantly rebuild trust.
It doesn’t remove pain.

But it does create the possibility of freedom.

Real freedom is not pretending we have no struggles.
Real freedom is no longer being controlled by the fear of being known.

And for many of us, recovery begins the moment we stop hiding.

What would change in your life if you no longer had to carry your struggles alone?

To read more, visit  RW-Coaching.com or email me at rwcoaching2@gmail.com .