I Don’t Complain. OHH...Maybe I do!

 

I complained my way through a life I once prayed for.

I know a lot of people who complain.

From the moment they wake up… to the moment they go to bed.

Didn’t sleep well.
Too cold.
Too hot.
Spouse did that thing again.
Kids won’t clean their rooms.
Kids are on their phones.
Kids exist.

Then there’s the news.

Which is essentially professional complaining… with lighting.

And then commentators… complaining about the people in the news… who are being complained about.

It’s like a Russian nesting doll of dissatisfaction.

And if you have a family?

Congratulations.

You live inside a group chat… with sound.

And work?

Work is where complaining goes pro.

Colleagues.
Bosses.
Emails that feel like they were written by someone who just discovered passive aggression and decided to major in it.

It’s not even a habit.

It’s the air.

And for most of my life, I would’ve told you…

“I’m not like that.”

I don’t complain.

I’m positive. Balanced.
Grateful-ish.

Meanwhile… I was complaining like it was a competitive sport.

I complained about everything I just listed. And then some.

I complained about my teams like they personally betrayed me.

The New York Jets? Real emotional damage.
The New York Mets? Character building.
And now the New York Knicks—who can beat anyone… as long as they don’t have a winning record.

I had range.
Depth.
Consistency.

If complaining burned calories, I’d be elite.

And I didn’t even know I was doing it.

Until Lent.

Every year, I give something up.

Clarity.
Reset.
Spiritual growth.

So this year I thought—let me stop eating chips (not easy at all) and…

Let me give up complaining.

Which is adorable.

Because what I discovered, almost immediately, is that I hadn’t chosen a behavior.

I had chosen a language. A personality trait. Oxygen.

By day one, I realized something unsettling:

If I stopped complaining… I wasn’t entirely sure what I would talk about.

Because I didn’t just complain out loud.

I complained internally.

Constantly.

A low, steady narration beneath everything:

“This could be better.”

On a loop.

All day.

Like I’m the Yelp reviewer of my own life. Three stars.

“Strong effort. A few issues. Would prefer different conditions.”

Coffee too hot.
Coffee too cold.
Coffee gone (which, truly, raises legal questions).

Traffic? Always suspicious.
Weather? Personal attack.
Other humans? Making bold choices.

I could turn a completely fine morning into a mild emotional inconvenience before 9:12 a.m.

And here’s the wild part…

I thought I was just thinking.

Observant. Aware. Discerned.

Turns out… I was narrating dissatisfaction with impressive consistency.

And once you hear it—you can’t unhear it.

It’s everywhere.

“How are you?”
“Busy.”
“Tired.”
“This week is insane.”

We don’t answer questions anymore.

We submit grievances.

And listen… life is hard.

There is real pain. Real loss. Real things that deserve real words.

But most of what I was doing?

Wasn’t that.

It was preference.

Minor discomfort.
Mild inconvenience.
Life not unfolding the way I would script it if I were, hypothetically, in charge.

(I am not. This has been confirmed repeatedly.)

And then… somewhere in the middle of trying—and mostly failing—to give this up…

I had this thought:

What if nothing is actually wrong… and I’m just commentating everything to death?

What if I’m not living my life…

I’m reviewing it?

Grading it. Docking points with a bright red pen.

Nothing gets an A.

Not the traffic.
Not the people.
Not even the moments I once prayed for.

And the cost isn’t just that I sound negative.

The cost is…

I miss it.

I miss my life while I’m busy critiquing it.

Because it’s really hard to feel grateful… while you’re busy being mildly disappointed.

And complaining doesn’t just describe your life.

It defines it.

Because whatever you repeat… you start to believe.

And whatever you believe… you start to see.

So if the soundtrack of your day is:

“This isn’t right…”
“This should be different…”
“This could be better…”

Eventually… even a good life starts to feel like a problem.

And that is a heartbreaking trade.

To be given a life—messy, imperfect, human, beautiful—

and spend most of it…

editing it.

So now I’m trying something different.

Not fake positivity.
Not pretending everything is amazing.

Just…

less commentary.
More presence.

Less “this shouldn’t be happening.”

More…

“This is happening.”

Because maybe the exhaustion isn’t just life…

maybe it’s the constant critique.

And I would hate to get to the end of a life that was, in so many quiet ways, good…

and realize…

I spent most of it giving it three stars.