Or why breaking a promise doesn’t make you a bad person (even if it feels that way)

“You must always do what you promise.” I can still hear my youngest niece say it, her little face serious, her voice laden with importance. As young as she is, she’s already absorbed the rule instilled in all of us as children: breaking a promise is unacceptable. Do it anyway, and it won’t be appreciated. Break promises too often, and it can be socially fatal.

Some people treat promises lightly (and unsurprisingly, we often view them as unreliable), but most of us were raised with a deep sense of the sanctity of promises. Someone who doesn’t keep their word not only breaks a promise but also the trust, or perhaps even the heart, of the person to whom the promise was made.

A Promise in Times of Crisis

This guilt reached a climax for me when someone close became seriously ill. They faced an incredibly tough and harrowing period. Everything that could go wrong, did.

I promised to be there for them. It was a promise made out of compassion and empathy. At that moment, I shared in their sorrow, fear, and suffering. I wanted to be there. I wanted to help. And yes, I also felt it was the right thing to do.

But it turned out to be difficult.

I didn’t quite know how; what to say, what not to say, should I send a card or just show up uninvited with a pot of soup – what exactly was expected of me?! And to be honest, I often just didn’t want to. Our bond hadn’t been particularly close in recent times, so it felt insincere and awkward to suddenly seek frequent contact.

In the past both friends and family have accused me of never reaching out or visiting.

That’s true; I’m introverted and have limited energy, so giving attention to others takes a lot of effort and is something I prefer to avoid. The accusations made it even harder, as they added more pressure.

Once I’d said I’d be there, it immediately felt like an obligation that smothered all good intentions, spontaneity, and love. My inability to follow through confirmed my own judgment of myself: I’m not a good person. I fail at something others seem to do effortlessly. Something expected of me, especially in times of need.

I was raised with the value that you should be there for others. That I kept failing at this, time and again, year after year, with friends and family and even now with someone in serious need, gave me a profound sense of guilt.

An overwhelming guilt.

Guilt: A Nasty Companion

Guilt is a nasty companion. Not only because it hurts, but also because it often disguises itself as something noble. It feels morally right to feel guilty when you’ve disappointed someone. But what if that feeling paralyses you instead of prompting action? What if it traps you in a cycle of self-reproach and procrastination, where you can’t do anything right?

Because despite (or because of) that guilt, I still did nothing. The guilt kept growing, increasing not only the pressure but also the threshold to act.

The saying “In times of need, you learn who your friends are” often flashed through my mind. “See, you’re a worthless friend,” I’d think in response.

Every day I didn’t reach out, every week I didn’t visit, became an indictment against myself. I felt like a coward. A bad person. I knew I was falling short. After all, I had promised. And a promise means you owe something.

But I didn’t just feel guilty towards the other person. Also towards myself. Towards the image of myself of who I want to be: someone who helps, comforts, listens. Someone you can count on.

And in a way, I am that person: call me in the middle of the night, and I’ll hop on my bike to be there for you. But in this situation, where no immediate action was needed but rather sustained attention and presence, I failed. And that felt like I had betrayed not just my loved ones, but also my upbringing and, most of all, myself.

Old Pain: Why This Guilt Haunts You

If I’m honest, this guilt about not being there for someone touches something deeper. Something that’s been within me for a long time, perhaps since childhood. In spiritual traditions, it’s sometimes said that we all carry old pain within us. Pain that acts like a magnet, seeking situations where it can reaffirm itself. (Read, for example, about the concept of the ‘pain body’ by spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle.)

As if it’s looking for repetition, for proof that it’s true. In my case, it’s the feeling of falling short. Of failing to care for others, failing in my supposed responsibility for others’ happiness. Every situation where I don’t keep a promise, or where I can’t be there for someone, seems to awaken that feeling again. And so, the guilt becomes not just a reaction to a current event but an echo of something old. As if it’s telling me: “See, you’re doing it again (or rather, not doing it).” It explains why some situations affect me much more deeply than they objectively should. And why I’m sometimes harder on myself than anyone else.

On the Receiving End of a Promise

What took me years to understand is that it’s not just the promise itself that carries weight, but also the expectation of the person to whom the promise is made. That expectation is rarely neutral. It’s coloured by hope, need, dependency, desire, and (distorted) ideas about what’s right and wrong. The heavier that expectation, the greater the sense of betrayal when the promise isn’t fulfilled.

When my ex-boyfriend ended our relationship, I felt intensely betrayed. He had said he wanted to make me happy, that he wanted to stay with me forever. So how could he now say he didn’t want to be together anymore? Was his promise a lie?

Only years later, with the help of my mentor, could I see that he hadn’t been lying or stringing me along all that time. Not in the moment. He meant it, then. And you’re allowed to mean such things. But no one can predict the future, and in relationships, people and circumstances can change. The promise wasn’t false; it was just temporarily valid.

If he had stayed with me while he no longer loved me, would that have been better? Would that have been more faithful to the promise? Or would he have broken it then, by not being honest?

I now know: some promises are fundamentally untenable. That doesn’t necessarily make them less valuable. But it’s unrealistic to expect someone to keep a promise forever if the foundation on which that promise rests shifts.

A Redefinition of the Sanctity of Promises

I always viewed a promise as a stranglehold contract, inescapable without severe consequences and with such heavy conditions that even fulfilling the contract places a heavy burden on your shoulders: debt or feeling guilty, which would you prefer?

But gradually, I’m learning to see promises more as intentions. And intention is pure and honest. It’s what we truly want at that moment. Only: intention isn’t the same as a guarantee. The intention to call, to help, to stay faithful, no matter how sincere, can still falter. That doesn’t make the intention worthless. It simply means that as humans, we are free and changeable. Isn’t that actually quite beautiful?

That also makes a promise less burdensome. The guilt, shame, or betrayal of the stranglehold contract can be set aside when you focus on the loving intention of a promise.

That said, I don’t want to give a free pass for making promises lightly only to retract them just as easily: those are empty promises lacking pure intention and sincerity.

In other words: what you promise, you must genuinely want to do – that’s what matters. It can still be painful if you can’t keep a promise, but that doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you human.

Forgiving Broken Promises

Spiritual teacher Byron Katie encourages you to examine your thoughts in such situations. What do you believe about yourself when you don’t keep a promise? And is that true? Who would you be without that thought? Guilt doesn’t disappear by punishing yourself or by resolving never to break a promise again, but by creating space for yourself (or the other person) to simply be human. By forgiving (yourself).

Honest self-examination, let alone self-forgiveness: I find that incredibly difficult and often don’t know where to start. Fortunately, I have a mentor who practises this with me.

What could I have done differently? What would I have needed to do it? Maybe that’s the beginning of forgiveness: not just of yourself, but also of the idea that you must always be able to do everything, must always persevere, must always meet expectations.

Looking back, I wish I had said: “I want to be there for you, but I don’t quite know how. I’m afraid I can’t live up to it, that I can’t give you what you want or need from me.” Maybe that would have been more honest. Perhaps even more healing. For the other person and for me.

Perhaps that’s where the true power of a promise lies: not in flawlessly keeping it, but in continually returning to the intention. To the connection. To the other person and to yourself.

Promising Without Guilt: A Different Kind of Loyalty

So far, I think I’ve often made promises reflexively. Because how easy (and expected) is it to say at certain moments: let’s meet up soon, or: I’ll be there for you! Well-intentioned, but unintentionally burdening yourself with expectations you weren’t prepared for.

Therefore, I’d like to become more genuine in my commitments. In a way that better suits who I am and is thus more achievable and honest. Not as a resolution, because you can’t enforce future actions, but in the hope that this insight will guide me in such moments.

I think my way of caring is that I want to be there for someone, but only if that person asks for it. You can always call me, but I won’t reach out to someone on my own. I find that uncomfortable, and I’m too introverted and lack the energy for it.

Maybe it’s time to revise my expectations of myself and acknowledge that my way of being there for others is different but not less valuable.

We live in a world that demands a lot. That says we must be able to combine everything: work, family, friendship, ambition, care. And also be mindful, reliable, and honest. In those overfilled schedules, we promise more than we can deliver. Sometimes out of enthusiasm. Sometimes out of duty. Sometimes because we think we’re only good enough if we say “yes.”