The Rolling Stones' "Loving Cup": Betrayal, Longing, and the Strength to Stand

Tonight, it came back. Not all the old pain — not the blowtorch torture of the first weeks — but a sudden wave that surprised me, hit me low, and left me unmade a few minutes.

It wasn’t a memory I chose. It wasn’t a photo or an old letter. It was a song — the Rolling Stones’ Loving Cup.   A song about love that’s raw and joyful, and full -- what I felt for her for ten years nonstop. And there I was, 58 years old, feeling the heartbreak of betrayal and the longing to love  someone who once received my love but somehow threw it away.

I know some of you reading this have been there, too. You’re living your life, maybe even feeling stronger, when something knocks you right back into grief: How could she, to any man? And how could she do it to ME, who was good to her?

I want to walk through that moment with you, because it holds enormous danger -- and possibility.

The Shock of Betrayal Never Fully Disappears

There’s a reason betrayal wounds more deeply than almost any other loss. When someone you loved dearly, and trusted, deceives you, the injury is double: the grief of losing them, and the insult of injustice. You didn’t just lose a person; you lost your Reality.

That’s why reminders can still feel like a knife in the heart even long after you’ve processed, journaled, or prayed. The body remembers the injury. The psyche remembers the insult. A song, a phrase, or a smell reactivates that memory, and suddenly the grief is alive again.

Three Responses to the Wave

When the wave hits, you’ll be tempted toward one of three responses. I’ve lived all of them.

1. Collapse into shame. This is the voice that says, “She betrayed me because I wasn’t enough.” That path illegitimately corrodes dignity and leaves you weaker. It's never true. Betrayal is about the betrayer, not about the betrayed. Just as when a Karen is rude in the checkout line, it's about the Karen, not about you. 

2. Burn with indignation. This is healthier, and a necessary step forward, but still holds danger if you stay there: “She wronged me.” It preserves self-respect, but if you stay here, it can curdle into bitterness.

3. Step into clarity. This is the hard but freeing stance: “Her betrayal was hers. My love was mine.” The cruelty belongs to what she did; the capacity for love belongs to you. She can do better in future. And you can continue to do your best by the next love. 

Even now, I sometimes stumble into shame or indignation for a few minutes. But clarity always waits on the other side.

What the Stones Stirred in Me

Listening to Loving Cup, I felt the rush of memory: not just of her body or her face or her voice, but of myself in the act of loving. I miss her, yes. But more deeply, I miss loving her. I miss the daily care, the partnership, the bringing home flowers, the running of lines with her, cooking for her, the sense of pouring myself into someone I believed in. (And don't be fooled by the shallow "men's coaches" who say that's weak and the source of the betrayal. That is an insecure traumatized man's lie.  Loving that way is true love; I saw this with my father and if you talk to any healthy woman, not to Andrew Tate bullshitters, you'll get the true information.) 

That longing is evidence. It proves I and you can love deeply, wholly, without apology.

And here’s the truth: that capacity of mine and yours didn’t die with the betrayal. It wasn’t hers to give or take away. It’s mine. It's yours. It remains.

Why Self-Reliance Still Matters

I teach my students — and I mean it — life is good even when a woman betrays you. Or if you betray a woman and ruin it all (you have other work to do, but you can do right). There is always a way forward. And self-validation is real, even if it’s hard to maintain in storms that hit your coastline.

Self-reliance doesn’t mean isolation. It means remembering that your worth doesn’t depend on someone else’s faithfulness. It means knowing you can stand alone, and from that strength, you can choose to love again — not out of desperation, but out of freedom and faith.

The World Is Wide

Here’s another truth I hold onto: there are billions of women on this planet. I don’t need them all. I need one.

Maybe she’s here in America, though I admit I often find the culture shallow and hostile to loyalty and depth. Maybe she’s in South America, or Africa, or Japan, where I once lived for a few years. Maybe she’s younger, maybe older. The point isn’t to lock in the profile. The point is to remember abundance.

Scarcity is a lie that betrayal whispers: “You’ve lost the only one who could ever love you.” The truth is the opposite: THAT woman proved she could not love you; there are many women who can love you, if you keep your heart open and your dignity intact.

The Universal Wound, the Universal Road

What you and I have suffered is universal. Betrayal is as old as humanity. It’s in scripture, in myth, in poetry, in the lives of kings and laborers alike. It burns. It stabs. It's a brutalizing experience and echoes remain. You’re not singled out for this pain. You’re standing in the same river men (and women) have stood in for thousands of years.

And the way forward is also universal:

• Feel the wave, but don’t drown in it.

• Name the insult, but don’t live in bitterness.

• Remember your fidelity.

• Remember your self-worth.

• Keep walking forward.

Tonight’s Lesson

So here I am, late at night, with the Stones' Loving Cup still ringing in my ears. For a few minutes, the wave unmade me. I felt love-killed, insulted, discarded, indignant, and sad. But with what I've learrned (and what I teach) ... clarity returned.

Her betrayal was hers. She can work through that and be ok; it's not my business now.  My fidelity was mine. My ability to love remains intact. THAT is my business. 

And life — this wild, difficult, unpredictable, invigorating life — is still good.

Final Word to You

If you’ve been betrayed, let me tell you what I know:

• You are not broken.

• The wave will come, but it will pass.

• Your capacity for love is your own, and it’s still alive.

• There is always a way forward.

• Magnanimity is  your key to get out of the prison of pain. She did her best, as she followed what she thought was best for her. Betrayal never is a good choice, but people honestly believe it is, or they wouldn't do it. Hold to magnanimity and yet to your boundaries. You can't blame someone who makes such an obvious wrong, any more than you can blame a mentally ill person for being ill. Love them (with boundaries, don't get mixed up in it again for sure).  (Honest breakups are different. But betrayals are more damaging to the betrayer than to the betrayed. And yet everyone can heal from them. Your business is to heal yourself.) 

And you will love again — not as a man who needs validation, but as a man who knows he can stand on his own feet, who knows life is good even when people fail, and who knows the joy of loving is worth all of this, because it perpetually renews and restores meaning and living.