The Expectation of "Having No Expectation"

Relationships are the heart of our lives, the threads that connect us to others and weave the fabric of society. They are both a source of profound joy and inevitable vulnerability. We yearn for intimacy, understanding, and shared experiences, yet we also fear the pain of disappointment, rejection, and loss. This delicate balance between the desire for connection and the fear of getting hurt is a tightrope we all walk, consciously or not.

Think of it like porcupines huddling for warmth in winter. They need closeness, but their quills can hurt if they get too close. We're a bit like that in relationships - we crave connection, but past hurts can make us wary.

In the aftermath of last week's newsletter, where we explored the vital role of grief in authentic relationships, a conversation with a close acquaintance shed light on a particularly intriguing approach to navigating this tightrope: the expectation of "having no expectations."

He shared a story about a recent interaction that had left him feeling conflicted and confused. It was a tale of unspoken desires, mixed signals, and the inherent challenges of maintaining emotional honesty in a relationship where one person explicitly states they have no expectations.

"You know," my acquaintance began, leaning forward with a thoughtful frown, "last week's newsletter really got me thinking. You talked about how grief is important for genuine connection, how it shows the depth of our bonds. But it also got me wondering... If feeling pain is so essential, why do we always try to avoid it? Why are we constantly told to 'move on' or 'get over it'?"

His question hung in the air, a quiet challenge to the conventional wisdom surrounding emotional pain. It was clear that the newsletter had struck a chord, stirring up a conflict between the ideas presented and his own lived experiences.

I paused, taking a moment to consider his words. "It's true," I acknowledged, "we live in a culture that often prioritises happiness and positivity, sometimes at the expense of acknowledging and processing difficult emotions like grief. We're encouraged to 'stay strong' and 'look on the bright side,' which can inadvertently create a sense of shame or inadequacy for those who are struggling.

He nodded slowly, a flicker of unease crossing his face. The silence that followed spoke volumes, hinting at the emotional turmoil churning beneath the surface. Finally, he spoke, his voice tinged with a mix of defensiveness and genuine curiosity.

"But doesn't attachment, or having expectations, inevitably lead to hurt?" he asked, his gaze searching for reassurance."Shouldn't we strive to avoid those expectations altogether, so that neither we nor the other person gets hurt? Isn't that a better approach?"

His words revealed a familiar struggle – the desire to protect oneself from pain, even if it meant sacrificing the potential for deeper connection. I sensed a deeper layer to his questions, or his perspective, probably which is born out of past wounds and a fear of vulnerability which haven't been processed yet.

"It seems like you've been grappling with this yourself," I ventured gently. "Has there been a particular experience or relationship that's brought this to the forefront for you?"

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly began to share his story. "There's this girl," he started, "we've been interacting quite a bit lately. She's... well, she's expressed that she's emotionally attached to me."

A hint of discomfort crossed his face as he continued, "I care about her too, but I've always been clear that I don't want any expectations. I tell her not to expect anything from me, and I don't expect anything from her either. I thought it was the best way to protect both of us from getting hurt in the end."

"I understand your intention," I responded thoughtfully. "It's true that expectations can sometimes lead to disappointment and pain. But can you elaborate on how this approach of 'no expectations' actually helps? Does it truly protect both of you from getting hurt?"

He hesitated, a crease forming between his brows. "Well," he began, choosing his words carefully, "we've always been told that expectations are the root of suffering. Even in our spiritual traditions, we're encouraged to surrender our desires and expectations, even from God, to avoid disappointment. So, in my mind, it makes sense to extend that principle to human relationships. If she doesn't expect anything from me, and I don't expect anything from her, then there's less room for hurt, right?"

"But what if she does have expectations, despite your attempts to manage them?" I countered gently. "What if, despite your intentions, her feelings deepen and she starts to hope for a future together? Wouldn't that lead to even greater pain down the line?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze dropping to his hands. "I suppose so," he conceded softly. "But I feel like it's better to be upfront from the beginning, to set clear boundaries and avoid any misunderstandings. I'd rather risk some emotional distance now than cause her immense pain later."

And then he paused, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Well," he began hesitantly, "I know it's a bit complicated. This has already happened she did proposed once. I was honest with her then, told her I didn't feel the same way, and that my conscience wouldn't allow me to lead her on if there was no intent of marriage. We stopped talking for a while after that."

"But then you reconnected?" I inquired, sensing a shift in the narrative.

"Yeah," he admitted, a hint of confusion in his voice. "A few months passed, and we started talking again. It was casual at first, but then we started interacting quite regularly."

"And during these interactions, you continue to emphasise having no expectations?"

He nodded. "Yes, I remind her often not to expect anything from me, and I try my best not to expect anything from her either. It feels like the safest way to navigate this... situation."

"I see," I responded, my mind racing to reconcile his actions with his words. "But given her initial openness about her feelings, and the fact that you've reconnected despite your earlier reservations, doesn't this approach create a mixed message? Could it be unintentionally leading her on or giving her false hope?"

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of realisation crossing his face. "I hadn't thought of it that way," he confessed. "I just...I don't want to hurt her. I don't want either of us to get caught up in something that won't lead anywhere."

"I understand your desire to protect both of you," I said gently. "But sometimes, the kindest thing we can do is be completely honest, even if it's difficult. By maintaining this 'no expectations' stance while continuing to engage with her, I wonder if this approch, while well-meaning, might be might be creating a different kind of pain, a subtle ache of unfulfilled connection and unspoken desires which might be inadvertently creating a more painful situation in the long run."

He looked up, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "What do you mean?" he asked.

I took a deep breath, preparing to gently challenge his perspective. "It seems like you're both walking on eggshells, tiptoeing around each other's feelings to avoid any potential upset. But in doing so, aren't you also missing out on the opportunity for deeper intimacy and understanding? Can a relationship truly flourish in an environment where expectations are completely off the table?"

He fell silent, his expression pensive. It was clear that my words had struck a chord, forcing him to confront the potential consequences of his actions. After a thoughtful pause, he spoke again, his voice softer this time.

"When we reconnected," he began, "we didn't explicitly discuss the future again. But I did express that I enjoyed our connection and spending time with her."

"So, you like spending time with her, but you're not willing to commit to a relationship?" I probed gently. "Is the issue the connection itself, or the societal label of 'relationship'?"

He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the directness of my question. "It's not about the connection itself," he finally said, "I genuinely enjoy her company. But I have certain values and principles that I can't compromise on."

"Like?" I pressed, curious to understand the root of his hesitation.

"Like not engaging in temporary relationships," he explained. "I believe in following my family's values, and that includes waiting for marriage before committing to someone fully."

"So, it's a matter of upholding those values, even if it means sacrificing a potentially meaningful connection?" I asked.

"Yes," he affirmed, a hint of defiance in his voice. "I can't go against what I believe in, even if it's difficult."

"I respect that," I acknowledged. "But doesn't this create a contradiction? You enjoy her company, yet you're unwilling to commit. It sounds like you're caught between your desire for connection and your fear of going against your principles."

He remained silent for a moment, seemingly wrestling with his internal conflict. Then, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. "Even after we reconnected, she hinted at her hopes for a future together. I told her I didn't want any hardships in my life."

The word "hardships" piqued my curiosity. "What did you mean by that?" I asked.

"Actually," he interjected, a thoughtful expression replacing the surprise on his face, "the hardships I mentioned weren't just personal. I was also referring to the societal challenges we'd likely face. Our cultural and family backgrounds are quite different, and I'm not sure how easily those differences could be bridged, even if we wanted to."

"So, it's not just about personal comfort," I observed. "There's a fear of societal judgment and potential rejection as well."

"Yes," he admitted with a sigh. "It's a complex situation, and I'm not sure how to navigate it without hurting either of us."

"But wouldn't your statement about not wanting hardships convey something even deeper?" I pressed gently. "It might suggest that while you're afraid of the challenges, a part of you also desires the connection, even if it means facing those difficulties."

"No, no," he insisted, shaking his head. "I made it clear from the start that she shouldn't expect anything. I've reiterated that many times."

"But you've also continued the interactions, even intensified them," I pointed out. "You've gotten to know each other better, shared more intimate moments. And you've admitted to enjoying her company, even feeling blessed to have this connection."

A blush crept onto his cheeks, a subtle acknowledgment of the truth in my words. "I... I suppose I have," he conceded."But I've always tried to maintain those boundaries, to remind her not to get her hopes up."

"Yet, she continues to express her feelings openly," I observed. "Given her initial declaration and the ongoing intimacy of your interactions, isn't it possible that your words and actions are sending mixed signals? That despite your attempts to manage her expectations, she's interpreting your continued engagement as a sign of potential reciprocation?"

He fell silent, his gaze cast downward, a thoughtful frown etched on his brow. It was clear that the complexities of the situation were weighing heavily on him, forcing him to confront the potential consequences of his well-intentioned but perhaps misguided approach.

"You're just exaggerating it," he retorted, a hint of defensiveness creeping back into his tone. "She's just a good friend of mine."

I couldn't help but chuckle at his attempt to downplay the connection. "Have you ever asked her how she defines this interaction which you labelled "Friendship" ?" I inquired, raising an eyebrow.

He paused, taken aback by the question. "Well... yes, I did ask her once," he admitted, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

"And what did she say?" I pressed, my curiosity piqued.

"She said that love and friendship are very different things, but they can be one," he explained, his voice softening as he recalled her words. "She said loving someone is about how you feel because of them, it's your own personal realisation, regardless of whether they reciprocate. But being friends with someone means they've earned your trust, it's mutual. It can't be one-sided."

He continued, "She also mentioned that when love is realised mutually, it often leads to a beautiful friendship. But loving someone doesn't necessarily mean you consider them a friend as well."

I nodded, impressed by her clarity and insight. "It sounds like she has a very mature understanding of love and friendship," I remarked.

"She does," he agreed, a hint of admiration in his voice. "She also said something else that stuck with me. She said that being in love and being in a relationship are two different things. Unlike love, which gives you absolute freedom, relationships need to have some order. They imply responsibility, just as freedom does."

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. It was clear that her perspective had challenged his own, forcing him to reconsider his approach to connection and commitment. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, revealing a depth and complexity that extended far beyond his initial assertion of "no expectations."

"But recently," he continued, a shadow passing over his face, "we had a bit of a disagreement. It was something minor, but she seemed upset about it."

"How did you handle the disagreement?" I inquired, sensing a potential turning point in their dynamic.

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I... I guess I didn't address it right away. We didn't talk for a few days. Then she reached out, asking if avoiding conflict was my way of dealing with things."

A sense of unease settled over me. "It sounds like she was expressing a valid concern," I observed. "Did you acknowledge her feelings?"

"Eventually," he admitted. "I apologised for not addressing the issue sooner, and we talked it through. But I also brought up my own perspective."

"Which was?"

"I told her that I wanted our connection to flow naturally, but her recent behavior felt like she was speeding things up."

"Speeding things up how?" I asked, intrigued.

"Well, she'd been sending me regular greetings and expressing her emotions frequently. The intensity and frequency of our interactions had increased."

"And how did she respond to that?"

"She wasn't happy," he said, a hint of frustration in his voice. "She said I was being naive, that she'd been clear about her feelings from the beginning. She reminded me that our interactions were happening with my consent and that I'd even expressed my own enjoyment."

His words painted a picture of a growing disconnect, a misalignment of expectations and desires.

"She also said something else," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "She said that she only wanted to interact if it was mutually enjoyable, which I had confirmed. She asked me to let her know if I ever didn't want to engage anymore, and she would stop."

A heavy silence fell between us. The complexities of their situation were becoming increasingly apparent.

"But then," he added, "I told her that nothing had changed, that I still saw us as just friends. I explained that I don't interact with any of my other friends with the same intensity, so it felt like things were escalating."

I raised an eyebrow, sensing a contradiction in his words. "But you also said you wanted things to flow naturally," I pointed out. "How do you reconcile that with the idea of maintaining a purely platonic friendship?"

He looked away, clearly grappling with the inconsistency. "I... I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe I'm just confused."

"It sounds like she might have sensed that confusion," I observed gently. "Her final message, where she said she'd only been interacting because of your expressed enjoyment, suggests that she was picking up on the mixed signals."

He nodded slowly, a look of realization dawning on his face. "I guess I wasn't being completely honest with myself, or with her," he confessed. "I enjoyed the connection, but I was also afraid of where it might lead. I was trying to have it both ways, and it ultimately ended up hurting her."

The weight of his words hung in the air, a somber reminder of the complexities of human relationships and the potential for unintended consequences.

"This reminds me of a beautiful shayari by Ankit Maurya," I shared, my voice soft. 

"Ishq nahi mujh se gar mat karo tum baat bhi, Haq mujhe jo nahi mila nahi chahiye khairat bhi."

He looked at me, his eyes questioning.

"It translates to, 'If you can't love me, don't even talk to me. I don't want charity if I can't have what's rightfully mine.'"

A flicker of understanding crossed his face. "I think I get it," he said quietly. "I was offering her a diluted version of connection, a half-hearted attempt at intimacy. And in doing so, I was denying her the authenticity and respect she deserved."

I paused, allowing his words to sink in before gently probing further. "Have you considered how your actions might have affected her emotionally?" I asked. "She's been open about her feelings from the start, and yet you've continued to engage with her while maintaining this 'no expectations' stance. Did your words and actions, especially those expressing care and enjoyment of her company, create a sense of hope or even lead her on?"

"It's possible," he admitted, his voice laced with a newfound self-awareness. "But I truly believed I was protecting her by setting clear boundaries. I didn't want her to get hurt."

"But is it possible to completely control our emotional responses?" I challenged him. "Even if we tell ourselves and others not to expect anything, can we truly prevent feelings from developing, especially when we're actively engaging in a connection?"

He fell silent, contemplating the implications of my words. "I suppose not," he finally conceded. "Perhaps I underestimated the power of emotional connection, the way it can transcend our conscious intentions."

"And when you ultimately used the 'no expectations' card to end the interaction," I continued, "did it feel like a way to avoid taking responsibility for the mixed signals you'd been sending? Did it feel like an easy escape, leaving her with no recourse to express her hurt or disappointment?"

His gaze fell to the floor, a wave of shame washing over his features. "I... I hadn't thought of it that way," he stammered."Maybe... maybe I was using it as a shield, a way to protect myself from the complexities of the situation."

"And perhaps," I added gently, "she chose not to confront you directly, recognising that if you weren't willing to acknowledge the emotional impact of your actions, her words would likely fall on deaf ears. Or maybe she understood that it's ultimately about being conscious of one's own conscience; if that's absent, no external voice can truly make a difference."

A heavy silence settled between us, broken only by the soft clinking of coffee cups in the distance.

"I also have to ask," I continued, my voice firm but compassionate, "if you truly didn't want to engage with her, why did you continue the interaction? Did she ever force you to be there? Did she ever ask for your pity?"

He shook his head, his expression contrite. "No, she never did," he admitted. "I was there because I wanted to be. I enjoyed her company, even if I was afraid of what it might mean."

"So, isn't it possible," I concluded, "that you were being emotionally dishonest, perhaps even hypocritical? You were engaging in a connection while simultaneously denying its potential, leaving her to grapple with the confusion and pain of unreciprocated feelings."

He sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the swirling patterns in his coffee cup. The weight of my words hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the casual atmosphere of the cafe. Finally, he looked up, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and newfound clarity.

"I... I never intended to hurt her," he said softly. "I truly believed I was doing the right thing by being upfront about my limitations. But I see now how my actions might have contradicted my words, creating confusion and pain."

A sense of relief washed over me as I witnessed his dawning self-awareness. "It's a common struggle," I reassured him."We often try to protect ourselves from vulnerability by setting boundaries and avoiding expectations. But in doing so, we can inadvertently create a different kind of hurt, one that's rooted in mixed signals and unfulfilled desires."

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "I realize now that my fear of commitment and the potential challenges of a deeper relationship led me to create a false sense of safety, both for myself and for her. But in reality, it was a fragile illusion that ultimately crumbled, leaving us both hurting."

"It takes courage to be vulnerable," I offered, "to open ourselves up to the possibility of pain in pursuit of genuine connection. But it's also in those moments of vulnerability that we experience the deepest levels of intimacy, joy, and shared humanity."

He sighed, a weight seemingly lifted from his shoulders. "I appreciate your honesty," he said, a grateful smile gracing his lips. "This conversation has been eye-opening. I need to take some time to reflect on my actions and how I can approach relationships with more authenticity and compassion in the future."

As we parted ways, I couldn't help but feel a sense of hope. My acquaintance's willingness to confront his own fears and acknowledge the impact of his behavior was a powerful step towards growth and healing. It was a reminder that even in the face of our deepest vulnerabilities, the pursuit of genuine connection is worth the risk.

This expectation of "having no expectations", while seemingly a shield against emotional pain, often creates a paradoxical trap. By denying the natural flow of emotions and expectations in relationships, we inadvertently build walls that prevent true intimacy and understanding. We create a false sense of safety that ultimately crumbles, leaving behind a trail of confusion, disappointment, and unfulfilled desires.

True connection requires vulnerability, honesty, and a willingness to embrace the full spectrum of human emotions. It's about acknowledging our own needs and desires while also respecting the needs and desires of others. It's about communicating openly and honestly, even when it's difficult. And it's about recognising that while pain is an inevitable part of the human experience, it's also a catalyst for growth, healing, and a deeper appreciation for the preciousness of life.