“Your list has lost a subscriber.”
My least favorite automatic notification ever.
I should’ve left the message alone instead of making the mistake of investigating the identity of the latest unsubscriber.
Seeing her name and email address amplified my angst.
That’s because the latest person who ditched my email list was a dear friend.
If you have no blog or email subscription list, good for you! And also, you may wonder about the exquisite pain that pummeled my heart at this revelation. But think of it as being blindsided by someone you thought you could trust.
Maybe it was a college roommate who’d informed your other roommates when she got engaged—everyone but you. Or discovering from the grapevine what the mom you share carpool duties with really thinks about your 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.
This sensation was familiar for David—as in the most cherished king in Israel’s history. Psalm 41:9 records his lament as such: “even my close friend, someone I trusted, one who shared my bread, has turned against me.”
His complaint here refers to Ahitophel, a man he trusted as his own counselor. Somehow, Ahitophel 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).
I get that someone who unsubscribes from my monthly email list hardly committed a breach of trust like the grievous level David endured.
But still.
Like David and Ahitophel, I have shared many meals with my friend, who shall be known as Betraying Bette—or Bette for short—for the purpose of this piece. My husband and I visited Bette’s family many times. We mailed them an El Pollo Loco gift card one Christmas. The orchid they gave us is still brightening our sunroom.
Bette informed me about a ministry that offered free online sessions for prayer and prophecy. One Monday we did a stakeout on their popular website, bent on scoring an appointment the moment registration opened.
It took many texts flying back and forth and browser refreshes, but we both booked an appointment that day.
So why did Bette 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, inspiring me to do an Instagram Reel on it. Or the one from Africa who thanked me for writing about why some Christians are so mean.
Africa! Prior to this particular reader’s email, I had no clue my work had reached another continent altogether.
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 Bette,
I’m saddened that 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 my 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 a couple months and counting, but my inbox reports no new message from Bette.
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 of my profession as a psychologist. Like you, I’ve tried to rationalize my way out of similar funks—and failed. Yet, here I am, still trying to squeeze logic into the solution.
You can’t take Bette’s unsubscribe personally.
To which my dejected self retorted, “Really? When it was I, not AI, who personally put in personal hours to craft each personal article and personal email for my subscribers?”
Maybe she unsubscribed by accident.
I sense a scoff strengthening on the inside. “Sure. And call me Joyce Meyer—she whose email subscription list probably numbers in the millions.”
Bette probably didn’t know that 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 disappointment to tell you why this incident hurt. Let it inform you of the depth of the hurt. Nobody craves the feeling of negative emotions. But if you stifle your disappointment, it will return with a vengeance.
So, don’t try to divert your disappointment by using logic, distraction, or—God forbid—by defending the person who slighted you. Be brave. Listen to your hurt and acknowledge how his or her actions let you down.
The Lord wants us to be at peace. But herein lies the problem: the world is teeming with people, all of whom possess a very real potential to bruise our peace.
It’s impossible to live in peace while bickering with family or harboring an ancient resentment against friends—or anyone, really.
This is why God also handed us the following tip: “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?
Matthew 18:15 has the answer. “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 Bette. I had hoped that 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 side sneers. Bette doesn’t even respond to 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. I nurse glowing anger anytime I come across her name.
Option 2 is to apply Matthew 18 again, but a few verses after the one we’ve just reviewed. Jesus told Peter—and us—that we’re supposed to forgive “up to seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:22, BLB).
Which, by the way, equals 490.
Thank God Bette has never chucked my subscription list that many times. I doubt my forgiveness muscle is that strong yet.
But forgiving her this time? That, I can do.
Afterword
As you navigate your path post this rupture, please differentiate between these important distinctions.
Forgiving those who hurt you is mandatory. Reconciling is not.
That’s because whether or not you should reconcile with the one who injured you depends on a few factors, including the nature of the offense and whether that person takes responsibility for the incident.
Regardless, don’t allow any disappointment to squelch your zest for life.
Photo Credit: Unsplash/Joice Kelly
Dr. Audrey Davidheiser is a licensed psychologist in California, certified Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapist, and IFSI-approved clinical consultant. After founding a counseling center for the Los Angeles Dream Center, she now provides IFS therapy for trauma survivors, including those with religious trauma, and assists in IFS trainings. She has been a regular writer for Crosswalk.com and columnist for iBelieve.com. Her book on how IFS helps the grieving process, Wholehearted Grieving, will be published by InterVarsity Press in 2025.