Outcomes Make Terrible Gods

My daughter once sat on my couch at eighteen years old and told me she had abandonment wounds from my divorce. (We've talked about this publicly on the podcast if you want the full conversation.) I remember listening. I remember trying not to defend myself. I remember fighting the urge to explain all the things she didn't know, to present my own evidence, pull out my own list of hurts. But in my field of work and training, I learned that her experience was her reality, and the last thing a parent should do is minimize, invalidate, or argue their own point in situations like that. Good parents listen. They validate. They practice empathy. AND, in conflict… Good parents OWN.

Yes dear reader, we own and take accountability for the roles we play in our loved ones' suffering. When we do that, we leave room for repair. Thankfully, in this story, we got to repair and build something beautiful from the rubble. That was almost a decade ago. Sometimes, hurts still creep in on both sides. And if I'm honest, with all of my training and practice, there are still moments when I want MY OWN validation. I want more understanding for me. I want repair my own way. I want the story to have a happy ending that I get to deem and narrate as happy. Don't we all?

Now, a decade later, the reality is that suffering hasn't disappeared. I suffer. My adult kids suffer. Friends suffer. We were never promised otherwise. And through the ups and downs of life, the variables and complexities of relationship, sitting with discomfort rather than reacting to it, I stumbled into an uncomfortable realization: my suffering wasn't coming from a lack of love. It was coming from my attachment to an outcome. Maybe that is true for you too. I'll say it again, louder for the people in the back: suffering isn't coming from a lack of love. It's coming from your attachment to a specific outcome. That is a big ouchie for me.

SOMETIMES SUFFERING ORIGINATES FROM OUR ATTACHMENT TO AN OUTCOME

There was a season of my life when the word deserve sat at the center of everything. I deserve respect. I deserve honesty. I deserve loyalty. I don't deserve betrayal. At first glance, those statements seem healthy, maybe even empowering. But I've begun to wonder if deserve can become a trap. Not because our wounds aren't real. Not because abuse is acceptable or accountability doesn't matter. But because there is a question hiding underneath the word that we rarely ask: What happens when our peace becomes attached to receiving what we believe we are owed? Because that is where suffering often settles in. Not in the pain itself. In our attachment to an outcome: the apology, the acknowledgment, the explanation, the different ending. And outcomes make terrible gods. I am done worshipping them.

I've been meditating on 1 Corinthians 13, Paul's famous chapter on love. Usually I stop at patience and kindness, yadda yadda. Kindness especially as of late. But what has been full-stopping me lately is this: "Love keeps no record of wrongs." We've all heard that phrase before. But recently I found myself wondering if there is another layer hidden inside those words. What if love not only keeps no record of wrongs? What if love keeps no record of rights? What if love keeps no score at all? Because scorekeeping works both ways. Sometimes we keep a record of what others have done to us. But sometimes, and this is the harder confession, we keep a record of what others should have done for us because of all the good things we have done. That second list has often been harder for me to release.

Now back to my opening example: I think back to that conversation with my daughter. The easy part was listening and validating. The medium-hard part was not defending myself, not explaining, not presenting my own evidence. I learned and knew enough on how to exercise this muscle. As parents, we are called to be the bigger, wiser presence, even when our children become adults. But the hardest part wasn't releasing the record of wrongs. The hardest part was releasing MY record of rights.

Because somewhere inside me lived a quiet ledger. A list of things I believed should happen if I loved well enough. Looking back, I realize that list wasn't just a record of rights. It was an attempt to secure an outcome. Not consciously. Not maliciously. Most of us aren't even aware we're doing it. But part of me believed my goodness should guarantee a result.

If I loved well enough, surely I would be understood. If I apologized sincerely enough, surely we would reconcile. If I sacrificed enough, surely I would be appreciated.

But love is not a vending machine.

We do not insert kindness and receive gratitude. We do not insert sacrifice and receive loyalty. We do not insert forgiveness and receive reconciliation. Yet there have been seasons of my life when I treated love exactly that way, and when the outcome didn't arrive, I felt cheated. Because somewhere deep inside me, I believed my goodness should guarantee a return. And the moment I began believing that my goodness creates a debt someone else owes me, love had quietly become a transaction.

Love says, "I give because I love."

Manipulation says, "I give so that you will."

That realization was uncomfortable, because I have spent most of my life thinking of myself as the one being manipulated, not as someone capable of trying to manipulate outcomes. I am a recovered victim. But that is exactly what my quiet ledger was keeping track of. If I listened, if I apologized, if I owned my mistakes, if I stayed available, surely that should produce understanding. Surely that should produce reconciliation. That's where attachment quietly enters the room. Not attachment to a person. Attachment to an outcome.

And the moment my peace depends on another person's response, I have handed them authority over my freedom. I have made them, or my attachment to the deserved outcome, my idol. My god.

I may no longer be tracking their wrongs. But I'm still tracking my rights.

The apology I deserved. The gratitude I deserved. The relationship I deserved. The closure I deserved. And every unmet expectation becomes another entry in the ledger, another reason to resent, another reason to remain stuck.

For the woman in an abusive relationship, hear me: I believe in boundaries. I believe in accountability. I believe in truth. But I no longer believe my freedom can be dependent on receiving any of them. Because I can establish a boundary whether you agree with it or not. I can tell the truth whether you acknowledge it or not. I can hold someone accountable whether they take responsibility or not. But I cannot tie my healing to their response. The moment I do, I become emotionally dependent upon an outcome I do not control. And that is a prison.

I think many women spend years standing beside an empty mailbox waiting for a letter that never comes. Waiting for the apology. The explanation. The acknowledgment. The justice. Waiting for someone to finally see what happened, finally choose them, finally understand. And while they wait, life passes by. Resentment grows. Bitterness grows. Not because they weren't hurt, their pain is real. But because their healing became attached to an outcome. They are suffocating under the crushing weight of a debt that can never be repaid, drowning in the imbalance of their own outcomes ledger.

At some point, freedom requires a terrifying surrender. The surrender of what should have happened. Not because it didn't matter. Not because it wasn't wrong. Not because you didn't deserve better. But because carrying it is crushing you. There is an old saying: let go or be dragged. Attachment drags us through years of replaying conversations, building cases, presenting evidence, waiting for a verdict from a judge who never arrives, carrying a debt that will never be paid. And all the while, our lives are passing by.

Freedom begins when we unclench our fists. When we stop negotiating with reality. When we stop demanding repayment from the past. When we stop requiring an outcome before we allow ourselves peace. This is not weakness. This is not denial. This is not permission for others to mistreat us. This is surrender. And perhaps this is what mature love ultimately looks like: a love without a ledger. A love that keeps no record of wrongs and no record of rights. A love that refuses to keep score.

So these days, I am practicing something new. When my daughter, or any loved one, feels close, I love them. When they feel distant, I love them. When they understand me, I love them. When they misunderstand me, I love them. When I receive the outcome I hoped for, I love them. When I don't, I love them. Not because I have mastered this lesson. Not because I don't still grieve. Not because I never ache. But because I am slowly learning that outcomes make terrible gods. And I am tired of worshipping them.

I think this is how God loves us. He doesn't wait for us to get it right. He doesn't wait for us to finally understand or repay Him. He simply loves. Because love is who He is. And maybe freedom begins when love becomes who we are too.

Sometimes what we call love is actually an investment strategy.