“It could be worse.”
When was the last time you heard this phrase? I hear this phrase every day, sometimes more than once, and it is cringy every single time.
Collectively, we are all going through it right now. Winter should be a season of cozy, soup-making hibernation. Instead, to survive, we need to get out of bed, caffinate, scrape off the car, brave the cold, and plaster on a fake smile. Everyone is sick and lacking sleep. Financial polarization and inflation keep getting worse. Living paycheck to paycheck is unbearably stressful. The political climate in the United States does nothing but spread vitriol and fear like an infectious disease. Civil and world wars are upon us. We’re all glued to screens. We’re all confused, misinformed, terrified, traumatized. We’re all overworked, exhausted, Vitamin D-deprived, craving escape. Everyone I know is barely getting by.
And yet, “It could be worse” is still our go-to response in tough times.
Whenever people say, “It could be worse,” I mentally return to Christmas Eve 2015. I was living at a 90-day women’s rehab facility in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Instead of leaving out milk and cookies for Santa on the night before Christmas, we attended a Twelve Step meeting. During my share, I sobbed uncontrollably because I was ashamed and grief-stricken to be away from home for the holidays.
The man chairing the meeting, an old-timer, responded by saying, “It could be worse. You could be in jail.”
Without realizing it, the man deemed wisest in the room, with 20+ years sober, invalidated my pain in front of the entire group. There I was, vulnerably bearing my soul, only to be told my experience wasn’t bad enough. His response was the definition of gaslighting. He might as well have said, “Someone out there has it worse. You need to shut up and be grateful.” It felt like I had been punched in the gut. Unsurprisingly, I still have trouble, to this day, using my voice in a group setting.
Tara Brach says when our pain goes unwitnessed, we don’t feel real. By saying, “It could be worse,” we participate in dehumanizing and belittling.
A more appropriate response to my Christmas Eve share would be, “This sucks and I’m so sorry. It makes sense that you’re hurting. Thank you for bravely allowing the group to carry some of this weight. We see you.” All I needed was to be acknowledged.
I don’t usually glorify the behavior of celebrity men, but this Theo Von clip is a perfect example of holding space. Von graciously offered to sit with his guest’s emotions, validated his trauma, and waited until he was ready to continue. There is nothing soft or weak about this. All I see is strength.
Sure, I understand where the “it could be worse” sentiment comes from. It can be helpful to gain perspective by stepping back and looking at the bigger picture. Jail would have been worse. But things don’t need to be worse for sorrow to be valid. Comparative suffering is straight-up dismissive. It works as a neglectful bandaid, leaving the actual wound unhealed.
Since spending Christmas Eve in rehab, I have learned the importance of embracing emotional duality. Things could be worse, and my current circumstance deserves compassion. Both are true. Emotional intelligence is holding multiple truths at once. Emotionally dense experiences are never neat, tidy, black or white. They are always complex, paradoxical, and nuanced.
The next time a coworker, a family member, or a stranger shares one of their struggles, I challenge you to refrain from saying, “It could be worse.” We all deserve to be seen and heard. Period. Things don’t need to be worse. The world is harsh enough as it is. We are all going through it.
Let’s discard comparative suffering and create space for witnessing.
Let’s reject dismissiveness and encourage holding space.
Let’s end gaslighting and begin acknowledging pain.
Let’s stop saying, “It could be worse,” and start saying, “I see you.”
Progress.