In a world obsessed with social media memes and the illusion that everyone is living their best life, being sad can feel like failure. Toxic positivity—or the pressure to always look on the bright side—can make people ignore necessary grieving and the real processing of their emotions.
Personally, I struggle to let myself feel sad for too long. Anything past two days feels excessive. Forty-eight hours is the allotted time I give myself to grieve. Whether it’s a death in the family, the end of a relationship, or a career disappointment, I give it two days. I cry hard that first day—really let it all out. I’m inconsolable. Then, on day two, I cry less and become extremely logical about the situation. Everyone dies. Something better will come along. This wasn’t meant for me. These are the things I tell myself to move forward. Some might say that’s a healthy way to process emotions; others might say it’s not nearly enough time to grieve. Maybe they’re both right.
I’m sure I developed this truncated grieving process as a way to cope with early trauma—or to combat the constant label of being too sensitive. Whatever the reason, this is how I grieve. But also, I grieve often. I feel deeply, which means I inevitably cry, fall into a minor depressive state, and/or just want to be alone. I absorb the pain of family, friends, the world crumbling around me—even the sorrow of strangers. My sensitivity is raw, open, and susceptible to every sensation. It’s a blessing and a curse.
Sometimes, it’s unbearable. Or unfathomable—that so much sadness, evil, and pain can exist in the world. That’s when the sadness takes over. That’s when I feel like I’m failing. Like we’re all failing.
Breathe.
Deep breath.
Find gratitude.
And that, for me, is the key. That’s how I get out of my sadness. I find gratitude in it all. It may sound cliché, not exactly groundbreaking, but it works. At least, for me. Because there is always something to be grateful for—even if it’s just breath. The ability to take a deep breath.
But also, I know I’m privileged. While I’ve experienced pain and loss, I’ve been extremely fortunate. I haven’t had it terribly bad—though I suppose that’s relative. And that fortune comes with its own anxiety, a constant waiting for the real pain to come. Because I know I won’t leave this world without experiencing something that feels absolutely unbearable. I’ve come close, but I know it can be worse.
Learning to cope is part of our human existence. Learning just how indestructible we can be is part of the human experience. So I’ll learn. I’ll keep learning how to be sad while staying grateful for every single second of joy.
Because without sadness, would we even be able to truly appreciate the joy?
