I COMPLAINED MY WAY THROUGH EVERYTHING

 

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? Emotional damage. The New York Mets? Character building.

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. A reset. A reminder. A little spiritual housecleaning.

So this year I thought… I'll give up chips.

And complaining.

Which, in hindsight, was adorable.

Because I quickly discovered I hadn't chosen a behavior.

I'd chosen a language.

By day one, I realized something unsettling…

If I stopped complaining, I wasn't entirely sure what I'd talk about.

Because I didn't just complain out loud.

I complained internally.

A constant narration beneath everything…

"This could be better."

On repeat.

Like I'm the Yelp reviewer of my own life.

Three stars.

Strong effort.

Would prefer different conditions.

Coffee too hot.

Coffee too cold.

Coffee gone…which, frankly, raises legal questions.

Traffic? Suspicious.

Weather? Personal attack.

Other humans? Making bold choices.

I could turn a perfectly good morning into a mild emotional inconvenience before 9:12 a.m.

And here's the wild part… I thought I was just being observant.

Aware. Discerned.

Turns out I was narrating dissatisfaction with remarkable consistency.

And once you notice it, you hear it everywhere.

"How are you?"

"Busy."

"Tired."

"This week is insane."

We don't answer questions anymore.

We submit grievances.

Now listen.

Life is hard.

There is real pain.

Real loss.

Real suffering.

But most of what I was doing wasn't that.

It was preference.

Minor inconvenience.

Life refusing to follow the script I would've written if I were in charge.

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

Then somewhere in the middle of trying…and mostly failing…to give this up, I had a thought… What if nothing is actually wrong?

What if 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 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 that I sound negative.

The cost is that I miss it.

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

Because it's hard to feel grateful while you're busy being disappointed.

And whatever you repeat, you begin to believe.

Whatever you believe, you begin 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.

That's 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