By Ryanne Czarina Villegas
We romanticize suffering like it’s a personality trait.
The late nights. The emotional unavailability. The “I’ll sleep when I’m successful” mantra. The idea that if something hurts, it must mean it’s important. That if you are exhausted, you’re doing life right.
Somewhere along the way, struggle became an aesthetic.
We post about burnout with pretty fonts and we joke about being emotionally wrecked as if humor can turn damage into depth. We wear our stress like a badge because rest feels undeserved and peace feels suspicious. Almost like if it isn’t hard, making us wonder if it’s even real.
This goes for a lot of aspects in life: School, love, social life. It’s the endless thrill. The high that we get from chasing someone impossible, keeping ourselves as busy as we can be to experience “life,” the comforting discomfort of always being at the edge of your breaking point.
We confuse chaos with passion, neglect with independence, emotional distance with mystery. Then we’re shocked when we end up lonely, drained, and wondering why love, success, or happiness feels like a constant uphill climb. Unsatisfying, even at its peak.
We glamorize the person who gives us nothing but inconsistency and call it tension, a type of push-and-pull we crave. We glorify overworking then call it ambition. We stay in situations that starve us, claiming that it’s for growth. It’s all a never-ending loop of gaslighting our toxic mindset.
But when something is gentle, when someone shows up consistently, communicates clearly, and offers peace instead of adrenaline, we call it boring. Too easy. “I’m missing something.”
No. It’s missing drama. Drama is addictive. It gives us something to fixate on. It keeps us busy, so we don’t have to sit with ourselves. Because calm requires presence. Stability forces us to reflect. And peace asks an uncomfortable question: what do I do when nothing is on fire?
That’s why healing feels empty at first. Not because it is, but because chaos trained us to equate intensity with meaning. The shift from constant adrenaline to a sudden calmness is somewhat jarring.
On and on we romanticize the wrong things. What we are used to, what our experiences have taught us to believe. But here’s the uncomfortable truth: not everything meaningful has to hurt. And they don’t always have to be earned.
The healthiest things in life often arrive quietly. Love that doesn’t keep you guessing. Work that doesn’t consume your identity. Friendships that don’t feel like emotional auditions. Alas, dreams that don’t require self-destruction to be valid.
You don’t need to earn rest by suffering. You don’t need to bleed to feel deeply. And you don’t need to be broken to be interesting.
Stop romanticizing what’s slowly hollowing you out. Some things are not meant to be dramatic or adrenalizing. They’re meant to be calm and steady. And learning to face that might be one of the bravest things you can do for yourself.
