The Ache Beneath the Smile: My Journey Beyond Toxic Positivity

"Barefoot before the storm, she lowers the mask, not in defeat, but in devotion to the truth her soul was always meant to hold."

For much of my life, I wore positivity like a second skin. I was the eternal optimist, always finding the silver lining, always reaching for hope, always believing that no matter how heavy the weight, tomorrow is another day. In my own playful way, I even used to call myself the Mexican Scarlett O’Hara, floating through adversity with a defiant smile and the belief that I could overcome anything if I just stayed positive enough.

And for a very long, long time, that worked. Or at least, I thought it did.

When the pandemic came, and the world as we knew it collapsed into uncertainty, I reached for my familiar tools: mindfulness, affirmations, mantras of gratitude. But this time, they felt hollow. The light I had always carried so confidently suddenly flickered, as if the very fuel that sustained it had run dry. Instead of feeling lifted by my usual wellspring of positivity, I felt strangely unanchored, disoriented, and for the first time in a long time, quietly afraid.

Even after weeks of joining virtual mindfulness sessions, the questions started to whisper: What is wrong with me? What if something is broken in me? What if my light isn't strong enough anymore?

But rather than letting those fears swallow me whole, I did something I had never done before, I leaned in. I dared to question the very thing I had clung to for so long: my positivity itself.

And there, in the quiet spaces between fear and curiosity, a deeper truth began to emerge. I saw how my constant reach for the light had sometimes been a well-intentioned form of avoidance, a kind of emotional bypass dressed in spiritual language. My relentless optimism, my constant striving to be the strong one, my quickness to reframe pain into a lesson, it was all, in many ways, a way of sidestepping the rawness I was too afraid to fully feel.

What I had once thought was resilience was actually resistance, just elegantly disguised.

The term toxic positivity began to land with me. I saw how bypassing can show up not just as forced smiles or platitudes, but as an entire way of living: over-functioning to control outcomes, suppressing grief with busyness, numbing with food or alcohol, hiding behind productivity, drowning in self-help content without ever sitting in the ache, or weaponizing gratitude to silence my own valid pain and fear. And perhaps the most deceptive of all — calling it healing when really, it was just avoidance wearing a softer face.

And then, there was the moment that pierced deeper than most.

One morning as Covid raged in our communities, for the first time, I had dared to share some of my vulnerability publicly, speaking honestly to my clients, confessing my fears: the anxiety of not knowing how long I’d be unable to work, the weight of signing a lease for my business just 3 months before the shutdown, the very human worry of whether I would get sick or lose my livelihood.

It was terrifying to let that curtain fall even slightly. And while many offered kind words, one dear client, someone I admire and respect, gently told me, “We need to be brave for our customers. My mentor always said: never complain, never explain. People want to gather around those who are magnetic and winning, not those who are afraid.”

I knew she meant well. And yet, in my gut, I felt the sting of invalidation, the subtle dismissal of my fear, my humanity. As though my vulnerability somehow made me less worthy of being seen, less worthy of holding space for others. A quiet message beneath her words whispered: Your pain makes you less magnetic.

And then, just days later, when her own business partner shared similar fears publicly, I watched as she wrapped her in warmth and public reassurance, offering the very comfort and permission I hadn’t been granted. That tender ache settled inside me: Why was her fear worthy of compassion, while mine was gently asked to be hidden?

But as painful as that moment was, it mirrored the murky waters I was already beginning to confront within myself. The spaces where my worth had long been tied to performance, strength, and being "the one who holds it together." That moment cracked open another layer of my healing, an invitation to reclaim something far more sacred: my own emotional sovereignty.

And so, during that excruciating time, I chose differently.

Instead of outrunning the discomfort of my fear and worries, or fearing that my vulnerability might make me look weak, I stopped. I turned toward the storm and allowed myself to stand still. I let the grief rise, the fear tremble, the uncertainty pulse through me without rushing to fix or reframe it. I let myself feel the raw edges of my own vulnerability without judgment or shame.

Because true healing, I’ve learned, isn’t found by floating above our wounds, but by walking through them with bare feet and open hearts. It is found in the sacred act of sitting with what is, allowing the waves to crash, trusting that I will not drown.

I only wish I had understood this truth long before a global pandemic came crashing through my life like a relentless teacher. But as it often is with real wisdom, it arrived not on a gentle breeze, but in the eye of the storm. And for that, I am grateful.

Because now I no longer seek shelter in illusions. I no longer bury my head in the sands of denial or decorate my fear with empty affirmations. I know that more uncertainty, more discomfort, and more unraveling will come, because that is simply the nature of being human.

But next time, I will stand at the edge of it all, not with false bravado, but with grounded compassion.

I will face the storm not as something to be feared or conquered, but as something to be witnessed, felt, and met with open eyes and a steady heart.

This is the medicine I carry forward now, not perfect, but present. And that, I have come to realize, is more than enough.