COMPOST #16: Forced Gratitude
I am not free while any wildflower is unfree
I have a complicated relationship with gratitude, which feels like something I’m not supposed to say out loud.
When I was in AA, I never felt comfortable introducing myself with, “Hi, my name is Kelsi, and I’m an alcoholic.”
Instead, group members told me to say, “Hi, my name is Kelsi, and I’m just grateful to be here.”
Except I wasn’t grateful to be there.
I wasn’t grateful for the harm and havoc alcohol caused in my life. I wasn’t grateful to be called powerless and defective. I wasn’t grateful for the commonly held belief that I chose addiction. And I certainly wasn’t grateful for the hammer the criminal injustice system held over my head.
My experience was so much more complex than gratitude. I was enraged, traumatized, and confused. Gratitude was expected of me, but I couldn’t quite grasp it.
“Hi, my name is Kelsi, and I’m fucking pissed,” was a truth nobody wanted to hear.
So I lied, faked a smile, told everyone what they wanted to hear, and kept drinking.
Forcing gratitude felt safer than being excluded.
The big move is almost here, friends. Only 21 sleeps remain until I pack up a U-Haul and drive toward a new life.
Things are falling into place in miraculous ways. Last week, I found out my rent will cost a fraction of what I expected. I have family members using their time and resources to provide me with affordable housing, with a safe place to land after years of extreme burnout and chronic pain.
When my therapist asked how I felt about this, a flood of tears washed over me.
“I don’t feel deserving of safe, affordable housing,” was all I could manage to say amid the tsunami of tears.
Here I am, once again, in a position where gratitude is expected of me, but I can’t quite grasp it.
For the past two years, I have been working alongside Venezuelan women who get paid less than half of my hourly rate to do the same job. They’ve shared countless stories with me about raising their kids in poverty, about persistent gun violence in their neighborhood, about ICE terrorizing their families, about living in a constant state of fear and exhaustion.
They are barely hanging on, and yet, somehow, they still show up day after day.
These women are human beings, just like me, who will never have access to affordable housing and a safe place to land after years of extreme burnout and chronic pain.
Forcing gratitude upon myself in this moment feels like a bypassing of reality. I come from a family that possesses extreme privilege, which is the only reason I have access to this housing opportunity. So many of the things I’ve been taught to be grateful for as a white woman are rooted in white supremacy, in the harm inflicted upon my coworkers.
I can’t force myself to be a grateful beneficiary of systemic violence and remain sober.
“Hi, my name is Kelsi, and if I deserve safe, affordable housing, then everyone deserves safe, affordable housing.”
Two days after telling my therapist that I don’t feel deserving, Prentis Hemphill (not so) coincidentally shared a podcast episode about holistic prosperity.
They discuss everything I am grappling with right now. They audaciously challenge the idea of deservedness. They affirm the bullshit of respectability politics and confirm that we’re all deserving of help and humanity. They provided a much-needed warm hug of inclusivity.
For me, genuine gratitude is found in conversions like this, between people who are actively dismantling systemic violence and white supremacy.
Who knows what this next chapter will bring. All I can do for now is let the tears flow, breathe deeply, and practice loving-kindness.
May I compost forced gratitude, create space for emotional complexity, and abstain.
May I never stop using my privilege to plant seeds of change.
May I soon cross paths with like-minded folks who welcome my truth with open arms.
“Hi, my name is Kelsi, and I am not free while any wildflower is unfree, even if their soil is very different from my own.”
🌱 Forced Gratitude Compost Equation:
Carbon (bypassing reality and emotional complexity) + nitrogen (respectability politics bullshit, white supremacy) + water (tears) + oxygen (deep cleansing breaths) + the art of decay = a nutrient-rich product used to fertilize wildflower soil
🌷Affirmation: May I never stop using my privilege to plant seeds of change.
🌼 Journal Prompts: In what areas of your life do you have a complicated relationship with gratitude? How would it feel to allow emotional complexity to exist? How can you plant seeds of change?
🪻Related bonus essays:
