3 Steps to

“Your list has lost a subscriber.”

My least favorite automatic notification struck again.

But this time, I made the mistake of investigating the identity of the latest unsubscriber.

The discovery sent a shockwave into my system. The person who ditched my email list was a dear friend.

If you have no email subscription list, good for you! But you may wonder about the exquisite pain that pummeled my heart at this revelation. Think of it as being blindsided by someone you thought you could trust.

Maybe it was a roommate who’d informed your other roommates when she got engaged—everyone but you. Or discovering from the grapevine what the moms you share carpool duties with really thinks about your darling kids. Or a thousand other examples of conversations and scenarios that are cutting, partly because you would’ve never suspected that particular person to do that.

King David of ancient Israel was familiar with this sensation: “Even my close friend, someone I trusted, one who shared my bread, has turned against me” (Psalm 41:9).

His complaint refers to Ahitophel, whom he trusted as counselor. However, this man switched allegiance and threw his support behind one of David’s brazen sons, who had launched a coup against him. As though this weren’t jaw-dropping enough, Ahitophel also strategized to slay David (2 Samuel 15:12, 31; 2 Samuel 16:15-23; 2 Samuel 17:1-23).

A friend who unsubscribed from my email list hardly committed a breach of trust to the grievous degree David endured. I get that.

But still.

I have shared many meals with my own Ahitophel. Let’s call her Betty the Betrayer—or Betty for short.

Our family visited Betty’s many times. For Christmas, we once surprised them with an El Pollo Loco gift card. The orchid they gave us brightened our sunroom before finally succumbing to my gardening skills.

No surprise there. What I know of plants are two shades below sufficient.

Betty once informed me about a ministry that offered free online sessions for prayer and healing. One Monday we did a stakeout on their popular website, bent on scoring an appointment the moment registration opened.

It took numerous browser refreshes and texts flying back and forth between us, but both she and I managed to book our appointments.

So why did Betty unsubscribe?

There’s no way I’m that awful of a writer—not when I’ve also received a number of encouraging feedbacks. Take the reader whose effusive praise for my relatable articles put a smile on my face. Or the one from Africa who thanked me for writing about why some Christians are so mean.

Africa! I had no clue my work had reached another continent.

No—I don’t think I deserve an unsubscribe from a friend.

And I most definitely don’t deserve what happened next.

I whipped out the following email after the unceremonious unsubscribe:

Hi Betty,

I’m saddened you unsubscribed from my blog, but I respect your decision. If you don’t mind sharing, what made you decide to unsubscribe? Maybe it can motivate me to be a better writer/author. I hope I didn’t say anything in the article that offended you. However, if there are any disagreements, I welcome them. I want to hear your perspective.
I hope you and your family are well.

It has been half a year and counting, but my inbox reports no new message from Betty.

My text app says ditto while my voicemail mumbles no.

How do you deal with trusted souls who let you down?

What Not to Do

Here’s how not to do it. Any attempt to insert logic in hopes of dissolving the problem is bound to flop.

The reason I knew this isn’t just because I’m a psychologist. Like you, I’ve tried to rationalize my way out of similar funks—and failed. Yet, here I am, with my Thinking part striving to squeeze logic into the solution.

You can’t take Betty’s unsubscribe personally.

To which my Dejected part retorts, “Really? When it was I, not AI, who personally put in many personal hours to craft every single personal article and each personal email for my subscribers?”

Maybe she unsubscribed by accident.

Betty probably didn’t know you’d receive her subscription notice.

This, I can see. But even if she didn’t know I’d be informed of her decision, it still doesn’t soothe the sting of being callously dumped, with the increased insult of having my follow-up email ignored.

Coping with Disappointment

To recover from disappointment, try the following.

1. Listen to it

Allow your Disappointed part to tell you why this incident hurt. Let it inform you of the depth of the hurt. 

Don’t divert your disappointment by using logic, distraction, or—God forbid—by defending the person who slighted you. Be brave instead. Listen to your hurt and acknowledge how this particular person has let you down.

2. Matthew 18:15

Paul reminded us: “If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all” (Romans 12:18, ESV).

But what does that verse look like in daily life? Cue Matthew 18:15. “If one of My followers sins against you, go and point out what was wrong. But do it in private, just between the two of you. If that person listens, you have won back a follower” (CEV).

Hence my email to Betty. I had hoped my gesture would prompt her to explain herself, perhaps even apologize for the hurt her decision had inflicted.

Bonus points if she disclosed how much she treasured our friendship.

3. Forgiveness

Wishful thinking, Audrey, my Cynical part sneers. Betty ignored your email, remember? 

True. She never got back to me. Which then sets me up for a fork in the road.

Option 1 is to cling to the grudge and its consequences: unfriending her on social media. Vowing never to talk to her again. Nursing bitterness.

Option 2 is to apply Matthew 18 again, but a few verses after the one we’ve just reviewed. Jesus told us to forgive “up to seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:22, BLB).

Which, by the way, equals 490.

Thank God Betty has never unsubscribed from my list that many times. I doubt my forgiveness muscle is that strong yet.

forgiveness: the ifs WAY

I invite parts that felt dinged by Betty to meet with me. Disappointed and Dejected parts hurry to sit next to me. Scoffing, Cynical, and Thinking parts saunter in behind them.

“Thank you for coming,” I open the meeting. “Betty’s decision made us feel lousy. I get that. But I’d also like to know if you feel I fully understand your feelings.”

Disappointed part speaks up. “I think you get how disappointing it is for her to do this, after the history we shared.”

Nods all around.

“OK,” I continue, “how about if we heal the hurt by forgiving her?”

Thinking part pipes up. “If forgiveness means releasing emotional hurt, that’s not really my department, so I’ll just follow your lead.”

“Thank you for trusting me, Thinking part. And to your point, to forgive means to let Betty—and her parts—off the hook for what she did. It’s probable her parts hijacked her. Her Self wouldn’t have hurt us,” I explained.

Scoffing and Cynical parts ask, “does forgiveness mean we have to let our guards down, exposing us to more hurt?”

“Whether or not we forgive, people will do what they want. But forgiveness expels the poison of bitterness that would’ve harmed us. And besides, everyone is free to subscribe and unsubscribe at any time. We don’t have to take their decision personally either way.”

I could sense my parts weighing this notion.

Dejected part raises its hand. “May we pause the meeting? I want to digest your words.”

“Everyone okay with this?” I glance around.

The unanimous yes means we’re concluding today’s meeting, reconvening in a week.

Real forgiveness takes time to process.

Email me if you’re curious about what happens at my next internal meeting.

All the best to you, as you navigate your own system out of the waters of betrayal.