Why We Keep Telling Ourselves We Shouldn't Feel This Way

One of the phrases I hear most often—in my therapy office and in my own mind—is this:

"I shouldn't feel this way."

I shouldn't be sad.

I shouldn't be overwhelmed.

I shouldn't complain.

I should just be grateful.

Other people have it worse.

At first glance, these thoughts sound humble. They even sound grateful.

But underneath them is something much more painful.

They teach us to distrust our own emotional experience.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that unless our circumstances are the worst in the room, we should simply push our feelings aside. We convince ourselves that our pain has to earn its place before we're allowed to acknowledge it.

But healing never begins by dismissing our own experience.

I've had to learn this lesson in my own life.

For years, I struggled to give myself permission to grieve living with Type 1 diabetes.

I would tell myself, "At least it isn't cancer. At least it isn't terminal. Other people are fighting for their lives."

Somehow, I had convinced myself that because my illness wasn't fatal, I wasn't allowed to mourn the countless losses that came with living with it every single day.

The constant decisions.

The mental load.

The unpredictability.

The fear of severe highs and lows.

The nights my blood sugar wouldn't cooperate.

The moments I couldn't simply eat what everyone else was eating without thinking.

The spontaneity that diabetes quietly stole from me.

The grief of knowing that every single day—for the rest of my life—I would have to think about blood sugars, count carbohydrates, make treatment decisions, and carry a burden that never takes a vacation.

But minimizing my grief didn't make it disappear.

It simply meant I carried it alone.

Looking back, I wasn't just minimizing my diabetes.

I was teaching myself that my pain had to earn the right to matter.

The more I reflect on my own life—and the more I sit with clients every day—the more I realize how common this pattern is.

Recently, someone shared with me that she was struggling at work and feeling overwhelmed in several areas of her life.

Yet every time she began talking about it, she stopped herself.

She had one friend battling cancer.

Another friend was going through a divorce.

Compared to them, she felt she had no right to complain.

She believed her struggles weren't significant enough to deserve attention.

It struck me that she wasn't struggling because her problems weren't significant.

She was struggling because she had convinced herself she wasn't allowed to acknowledge them.

I wonder how many of us do the very same thing.

How many times have we told ourselves:

"Other people have it worse."

"I should just be grateful."

"This isn't a big enough problem."

"I don't have a right to struggle."

The truth is, someone else's pain does not make yours disappear.

Pain isn't measured on a scoreboard.

Your emotions don't have to justify themselves before they deserve your attention.

I see this especially often in relationships.

Someone sits across from me feeling lonely, disconnected, or unseen in their marriage.

Before they can even finish describing what they're experiencing, they begin explaining why they shouldn't feel that way.

"He's such a good guy."

"She's such a good woman."

"My spouse would never intentionally hurt me."

"Other marriages have much bigger problems."

As though being married to a good person means you're no longer allowed to grieve the connection you're longing for.

But someone can be a genuinely good spouse...

...and you can still feel lonely.

Your marriage can be stable...

...and still not feel emotionally connected.

You can appreciate your partner...

...and still long for deeper intimacy.

Acknowledging what's missing isn't an act of ingratitude.

It's an act of honesty.

The same is true in so many areas of life.

You can desperately want children...

...and still find parenting exhausting.

You can love your career...

...and still feel burned out.

You can have supportive friends...

...and still feel lonely.

You can be deeply grateful for your life...

...and still have days that feel incredibly heavy.

The problem isn't that we experience these emotions.

The problem is that we spend so much energy trying to convince ourselves we shouldn't.

When we compare our pain, we don't make it smaller.

We simply make ourselves lonelier.

The emotions we continually dismiss don't disappear.

They often become anxiety.

Resentment.

Burnout.

Numbness.

Disconnection.

Or depression.

Healing begins when we stop asking,

"Is my pain bad enough?"

and start asking,

"What is my pain trying to tell me?"

That question changes everything.

One of the greatest privileges I have as a therapist is helping people stop apologizing for their emotional experience.

Therapy isn't about deciding whether your struggles are "worthy enough."

It's about giving yourself permission to acknowledge them without guilt, comparison, or shame.

It's about understanding what your emotions are trying to communicate instead of arguing with them.

It's about learning that acknowledging your pain doesn't make you weak, ungrateful, or dramatic—it makes you human.

You don't have to wait until your life is falling apart before asking for help.

You don't have to earn the right to heal.

If you're hurting, that matters.

If you're grieving, that matters.

If something feels heavy, that matters.

Your experience matters because it is yours.

So the next time you hear yourself saying,

"I shouldn't feel this way..."

pause.

Ask yourself:

Who taught me that?

And is it actually true?

Because maybe the problem isn't that you're feeling too much.

Maybe the problem is that you've spent years convincing yourself you're not allowed to feel it.

Healing doesn't begin when your suffering becomes the biggest.

It begins the moment you stop arguing with your own experience.