Disappointment

Today, I attended a wedding for someone I’ve considered a very close friend since high school. We shared a locker for three years, navigated clubs together, and her family even supported me through my first heartbreak. She stood by my side as a bridesmaid at my wedding. Even years after high school, we speak every day.

When she got engaged, she told me there would be no bridal party at her wedding—that her brother would officiate, and one of her other friends might be in a planning role, but that was it.

I was disappointed, but I'd understood. I’d wanted the opportunity to do for her what she’d done for me. But recognizing that a bridal party wasn’t something she wanted, I’d let it go.

But today, I was confronted with the fact that I’d been lied to.

There was a bridal party—I just wasn’t in it.

Ouch.

Gotta say, that one hurt. This is something I struggle with all the time—not just with this friend, but in nearly every personal and professional relationship I have. I constantly wonder if my best friend of nearly fifteen years even likes me. I sometimes have a hard time believing that someone as amazing as my wife actually chose to marry me. I wonder if the people I served in the Army with remember me as fondly as I remember them. I wrestle with my relationships with family—are they only putting up with me because they have to, or do they genuinely enjoy my company? I agonize over every email I send to authors, questioning whether they regret choosing me as their editor or if I did a good enough job. I lie awake in bed wrestling with my place in the lives of everyone I encounter.

In the film adaptation of Jenny Han’s Always and Forever, Lara Jean, Peter Kavinsky says, “There’s nothing worse than not being chosen.” But I’d take it a step further and argue there’s something even more painful: realizing that you thought you knew your place in someone’s life, but they mean more to you than you mean to them.

That’s a jagged little pill to swallow.

Still, I’m reminded of a line from Sarah Dessen’s Just Listen: “But people recover from disappointment. Otherwise we’d all be hanging from nooses. Right?”

Right.

I know the young adult genre takes a lot of shit. It’s labeled simplistic. Called formulaic. Predictable. Boring.

But it’s so much more than that. At its core, YA is about growth and change. It’s all about learning to navigate the complexities of life and relationships—something I still haven’t mastered. It captures the essence of youth, portraying characters on journeys of self-discovery and coping with disappointment. Those characters have been my companions, making me feel seen and understood in ways the real world often fails to.

Someone at the wedding today asked me if it feels weird to me that we’re adults now. She confessed she still feels nineteen, though we’re both well past that. I told her no—not at all. I’ve settled into myself in a way I didn’t expect. Adulthood suits me. I’ve moved beyond the attitudes of my youth. Even still, outgrowing YA is not something I have done, nor is it something I likely ever will do. I don’t think I’m ever going to give up on learning, growing, and changing, so YA will always feel relevant to me.

I’m still navigating my journey of growth. Just like the characters in the stories we write and consume, I’m learning that sometimes friendships aren’t what we think they are. It’s okay to just be grateful for whatever phase those relationships are in, without pressuring them to be more. And it’s okay to be disappointed. It’s all part of the process.

Authors have the power to shape these narratives of growth and change. Creating characters that explore the messy, complicated emotions that come with relationships help readers understand that they, too, can grow, change, and heal. So as I come to terms with a new understanding of my friendship’s status—my disappointment, and gratitude, and evolving outlook—I find comfort in knowing that growth, even through pain, is a universal theme. It’s a lesson that resonates deeply with both our characters and our readers, reminding us that we, none of us, are alone.