A Lightbulb Moment I had Recently in Therapy

Learning to Expect Less (and Live More Freely)

Hi! Danielle Wraith here! The Second Act is the weekly newsletter I always wanted in my inbox, packed with obsessively-curated recommendations, thoughtful reflections on books, feelings, life, and the art of making room for more. Whether you're seeking inspiration or connection. The Second Act offers a warm, inviting space for all.

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I’ve been in and out of therapy for years. It’s never been new to me, and I’ve always believed in it, even when I’ve taken breaks. But in the last several years, it’s become something I’ve really leaned on, especially as someone who navigates anxiety and waves of depression.

I’ve worked with a few different therapists over the course of my life, but since settling in Fresno, I’ve found one I trust. We’ve built a rhythm, twice a month for a while, then down to once a month when summer ended. Maintenance mode, as some people call it. And honestly, it’s been such a steady, grounding force.

A few sessions ago, she said something that landed in that rare, deeply clarifying way. You know those things you kind of know, but haven’t really heard yet? It was one of those.

We were talking about disappointments—the kind that sting because they come from people who should know better. I had been naming a few people who had let me down lately. And I asked her, almost pleadingly, what do I do when I can’t stop spinning on the hurt?

She looked at me and said, gently but directly:
“What if you stopped expecting anything from them?”

That was it. And something about it cracked open.

It’s not revolutionary on paper, but in that moment, it shifted something inside me. Because I’ve spent a long time aching for more from people who don’t—or can’t—show up the way I need.

If you’re new here, you might not know: I don’t know my biological dad. He’s always been more of a shadow than a person. There’s no tidy story or clean break—just a quiet, lingering absence. The kind of trauma that comes from what wasn’t there. It’s strange how something so invisible can take up so much space.

But I’ve also been lucky. My mom and stepdad—who I proudly just call Dad—are my people. My mom is warmth and strength and unwavering love. My dad is steady and kind and shows up in all the ways that matter. They’ve taught me that family isn’t blood—it’s presence. It’s showing up over and over again, especially when it’s hard.

Still, the old wounds flare up sometimes—especially now that I’m a parent. I hold high expectations because of course I do. I’d do anything for my kids. I drop everything when they need me. I show up, even when I’m running on empty. So when others don’t do the same for me, it hurts. It’s heavy. It feels personal.

But maybe it’s not about lowering the bar—it’s about moving it altogether. Not because we’re giving up, but because holding out for something that hasn’t arrived only prolongs the pain.

Letting go of expectations, especially from people who should be there, is its own kind of grief. But it’s also a way forward. It doesn’t mean you stop caring. It means you stop waiting to be cared for in a way someone may never be able to offer.

And maybe, that’s where healing begins.

If this resonates, I hope you know you’re not alone. I’m right there too, unlearning, softening, staying open without setting myself on fire. It’s a process, but I’m finding peace in the shift.

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