How I Stopped Lying to Myself in the Name of Positivity

And what actually makes optimism meaningful.

This Is Not About Being Vegan

Far on the other side of your world, a young chicken is born into chaos. Cramped, overcrowded, thousands pressed together—stepping over one another, restless, afraid. They fight. They lash out. They wound each other by accident and instinct.

Caught in a wave of chaos, the young chick is pecked and trampled. Too many beaks, too many claws. Death by a thousand cuts leaves her sprawled on the floor, unable to stand, unable to understand what's happened. She does not grasp existence. She barely comprehends the absence of pain.

In the world of chickens, there is no place for the weak. The flock abandons those who cannot keep up. Community is reserved for the healthy and strong. When the mayhem subsides and she finally has space to breathe, it is too late. Her body will not move.

Two humans approach. They point at her, mutter between themselves, then turn away. Another gently pets her, reassuring her she will be fine.

Yet she is left there, waiting. The antibiotics will keep her alive just long enough to grow, then she will be slaughtered in four weeks.

Meanwhile, Closer to Your Home

Just before Christmas, my then father in law received devastating news. Cancer. It had spread. At most, he had four weeks left. Treatments were available, but the outlook was grim.

In crisis, the family chose positivity. He did too. But there is a thin line between positivity and denial, and denial is precisely where they landed, mistaking it for optimism.

As his condition deteriorated, their chants of encouragement grew louder. Conversations revolved around his inevitable recovery.

My Portuguese sensibilities struggled with this. I tried gently to remind them of the clear prognosis. No one listened.

Until his last breath, he held tightly onto forced positivity, refusing acceptance. Only as he lay fading did he finally speak honestly. His final words to his son were, "I am scared, kid." It was their first real conversation about his illness. Perhaps a bit too late.

He did not go down fighting. He went down resisting.

We had chicken instead of turkey that Christmas.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

Positivity has its place, but I don’t believe in forced optimism. I believe in surrender, not negativity.

We tell stories to make suffering bearable. We cling to hope because the alternative feels unbearably heavy. But real hope is not denial, and true positivity is not pretending. It is seeing reality clearly, however painful, and still choosing to move forward.

Hope is not about resisting what is. It is about accepting fully and then releasing the need to control the outcome. Surrender is not the absence of strength but the recognition that fighting reality only deepens suffering. When we accept what is, we make space for clarity, peace, and even courage.

Real hope isn’t about shielding ourselves from pain. It’s about facing truth, and moving forward anyway.