I’ve spent so much of my life being “the positive one.”
The one who can find a silver lining in the darkest cloud.
The one who can crack a joke in the middle of bad news.
The one who smiles so other people feel more comfortable, even when my own world is falling apart.
It’s a role I’ve played so well that people have started to believe it’s me.
Not a choice. Not a coping mechanism. Just who I am.
But here’s the truth: being the positive person is exhausting.
It means swallowing my fear so I don’t make anyone else uncomfortable.
It means dressing up bad news so it’s easier for other people to hear.
It means turning my pain into a lesson, my grief into a motivational quote, my fear into a funny story — because if I can make it sound inspiring, maybe they won’t look so scared.
And sometimes… it means lying.
Because there are days when there is no silver lining.
Days when the “bright side” feels fake in my mouth.
Days when I can’t joke about cancer or make my pain into a story worth posting.
On those days, I stay quiet.
Not because I don’t want connection, but because I don’t want to watch people’s faces fall when they realize I’m not “the strong one” today.
The thing no one talks about is how quickly people get used to you being positive — and how they panic when you’re not.
The first time you show them the cracks, you see it in their eyes:
She’s not supposed to be like this.
They start telling you to “keep your chin up,” to “stay strong,” to “think positive,” as if the only acceptable version of you is the one who’s already okay.
And that’s the part that really hurts — realizing people don’t want you, they want the version of you that makes them feel better.
Positivity can be powerful.
It can be a survival tool.
But it can also be a cage.
Once people put you in that box — the upbeat one, the tough one, the one who can “handle anything” — it feels like you’re not allowed to be anything else.
You can’t crumble.
You can’t cry.
You can’t say, This is too much for me.
And if you do, you can feel them pulling back, uncomfortable with the real version of you — the one that isn’t all light and hope.
I’m learning that I don’t owe anyone my positivity.
It’s okay to be honest when the weight is too heavy.
Letting people see the bad days doesn’t make me weak — it makes me human.
And maybe the bravest thing I can do is stop being “the positive one” long enough to tell the truth:
Some days are dark.
Some days are hard.
Some days, the only silver lining is that I made it through to the next one.
Mojo’s POV:
People think Mom is always smiling. I know better.
I know the days when she laughs loud, and the days when she barely speaks.
I know when the “I’m fine” she tells everyone else isn’t true.
I know when her smile is for them, not for her.
On those days, I don’t try to make her be “positive.” I just stay close.
I press my back against her legs when she sits down.
I follow her from room to room so she never feels alone.
I curl up beside her in bed and breathe slow so she can match me.
I don’t need her to be the strong one.
I don’t need her to be the happy one.
I just need her to be here.
And I’ll love her exactly the same — sunshine or storm.
If you connected with this post, I’d love for you to stick around.
You can subscribe via email so you never miss a new post — and if you think someone else needs to read this, please share it.
Every like, share, and subscription helps this little corner of the internet reach more people who might need to hear they’re not alone
Leave a reply to mshibdonssciencelab Cancel reply