Why “Toxic Positivity” Is Making Us Feel Worse, Not Better

You’ve probably heard it.

“Just think positive!”

“Look on the bright side.”

“At least it’s not worse.”

Maybe you’ve even said it—trying to help someone feel better. I know I have. I’ve said it to friends, to coworkers, even to myself in the mirror when I didn’t know what else to do.

But here’s what I’ve learned: there’s a big difference between hope and denial. And toxic positivity confuses the two.

For a long time, I thought being strong meant always staying positive. I felt like admitting sadness or fear meant I was failing somehow. So I put on the smile. I pushed the hard stuff down. I told myself things could be worse.

And on the surface? It worked. I looked like I was coping.

But under it all, I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t healing—I was hiding.

I remember this one moment after I lost someone I loved deeply. A well-meaning friend told me, “At least you had time with them.” And I know they meant it as comfort. But it landed like a slap. I didn’t want perspective—I wanted permission to feel.

Grief doesn’t care about silver linings. Neither does anxiety, depression, heartbreak, or burnout.

The truth is: real healing starts when we stop trying to force ourselves—or anyone else—to “get over it” and instead give space for the full weight of what’s there.

That’s the heart of toxic positivity. It’s not that optimism is bad. It’s that when it’s used to shut down real emotion, it can actually do harm. It sends a message that discomfort is unacceptable. That sadness should be hidden. That if you’re not smiling, you’re doing life wrong.

It’s subtle, but dangerous.

Because when we can’t be honest about our pain, we also start to lose connection—to ourselves, and to others.

We might start to think we’re the only ones feeling this way. That something must be wrong with us. That everyone else is coping “better.”

And so we shrink. We isolate. We smile through it. We keep quiet.

But inside, we ache for someone to say: “It’s okay not to be okay.”

The irony is, the people who say “just stay positive” often mean well. They want to help. They’re uncomfortable with our discomfort—and maybe their own. So they reach for something shiny to cover it up.

But what most of us really need is not a fix. We need presence. We need someone who can sit in the dark with us without trying to flip the light on right away.

Sometimes, healing sounds more like:

“That sounds incredibly hard. I’m here.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“I’m not going to offer advice. I just want you to know I see you.”

Those words have more power than a thousand cheerful affirmations ever could.

It took me years to unlearn the pressure to be okay all the time. To let myself cry without apology. To answer “How are you?” with something other than “Good!” when I wasn’t.

But now, I protect my right to feel the whole range of being human. I don’t push away pain just because it’s uncomfortable. I sit with it. I listen to it. I let it teach me what it came to say.

And I offer that same grace to the people around me.

Because here’s the truth: life is messy, and healing is not linear. There’s no timeline for grief, no quick fix for anxiety, no shortcut through burnout.

But there is power in honesty. There is freedom in saying, “Today was hard.”

There is strength in vulnerability.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve felt guilty for feeling low, if you’ve apologized for your tears, if you’ve swallowed your pain because you thought you had to stay “positive”—please hear me:

You don’t have to fake it.

Not for the people around you. Not for social media. Not even for yourself.

You’re allowed to feel it all. The good, the bad, the in-between. You’re allowed to break down and rebuild. You’re allowed to sit in silence, to scream, to breathe, to rest.

There is no prize for pretending. But there is real, deep healing in permission.

Toxic positivity might wrap pain in a pretty bow—but real support sounds like truth. Messy, honest, beautifully human truth.

Let’s make space for that.

Because you’re not alone. Not now. Not ever.