A 🖕 to Toxic Positivity

I’ve been searching for years for a term that accurately describes phrases like:

“Smile more.”

“It is what it is.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“Good vibes only.”

And of course, the unholy grail: “Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy.”

If I could soak those words in lighter fluid and light a match, I would. I’d burn the entire lexicon of emotionally avoidant bullshit to the ground.

To the people who say “smile more”?

Rudely, fuck off.

If you see someone not smiling, maybe — just maybe — they’re carrying something heavier than your comfort can comprehend.

Tell that to the person who just buried their mom. Or found out their kid has cancer.

Hell, tell that to the person who just overdrafted their account, got ghosted by their therapist, and still showed up to work.

It’s not a vibe issue. It’s a reality issue. And you’re too high on serotonin memes to know the difference.

Don’t Be Full of Shit

Toxic positivity is the gospel of the emotionally constipated.

It’s the gaslighter in the pastel polo, crew neck sweater tied around their neck, sipping a $9 green juice while telling you “the universe has a plan.”

It’s the corporate email ending in a yoga pose emoji — from a company with insurance plans that require a second job and a blood sacrifice.

It’s the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” crowd, who’ve never seen a food stamp or overdrawn their bank account immediately after depositing a bimonthly paycheck, telling you how to heal with a smile and a dream board.

It’s the Morgan Wallen/Florida Georgia Line fan who has no clue what “Man in Black” was really about, who calls themselves a patriot but wouldn’t last ten minutes in a Woody Guthrie song.

Armor up

So what do you do when your nervous system is fried?

When your inner child is tapdancing on a landmine?

When you’re overstimulated, under-resourced, and one email away from snapping?

You wrap yourself in an invisible coat of middle fingers.

A luxurious aura of “fuck yous” — stitched from survival, lined with spite, and tailored for the exact dimensions of the bullshit you’ve dealt with.

You wear it for the uninsured. The unemployed. The ones who didn’t inherit a safety net.

You wear it for the kid who got mocked for their accent. The woman who got passed over for promotion. The human who’s told they’re too much just for existing honestly.

And somehow — somehow — you still find the guts to be grateful.

Grateful that you didn’t swallow the lie.

Grateful that you didn’t let “good vibes only” erase your grief.

Grateful that you can spot emotional fraud from 50 feet away.

Grateful that you’ve got enough punk rock in your soul to say:

“Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me.”

Grateful that I looked up who Fred Hampton was in my adult life and realized I had the ethical wherewithal to say “it’s fucked up they didn’t teach us about him in school.”

What does any of this have to do with gratitude?

Everything.

Because gratitude isn’t a sticker on a water bottle.

It’s the battle cry of people who feel it all — and keep showing up.

GratefulAF.

Louder than denial.

Heavier than platitudes.

Stronger than smiley-face tyranny.

Forward this to someone who’s allergic to bullshit.

Or hit reply and tell me what “toxic positivity” you’ve torched this week.