Because Even Trigger Warnings Can't Sell Sadness

“I’m sad.”

Once, that meant something.

As a child, it opened arms,

drew curtains,

paused the world

for your tears.

Now?

Say it with an adult mouth

and the room flinches.

Sadness becomes

a performance issue.

A flaw in the factory settings.

They say: “Grow up.”

As if aging is anesthesia.

As if grief has a sell-by date.

As if maturity means

learning to bleed without stains.

“Grow up,” they repeat —

to people already eroding

from trying.

They hand you prescriptions

for silence,

yoga for grief,

self-love for loneliness,

pretend ointments

for your pain.

Because adult sadness

must be quiet,

efficient,

palatable.

You used to be allowed to cry.

Now you’re expected

to “cope attractively.”

Back then, sadness was human.

Now it’s unprofessional.

Unstable.

Unwelcome.

And those who say “grow up”

are the most undone of all —

ruins wrapped in résumé words,

too terrified to admit

their own ache.

They don’t want truth.

They want performance.

So we learn

to disguise grief as humour,

despair as content,

silence as strength.

We cry

with straight spines.

We scream

through our teeth.

We ache

only in metaphors.

Because somewhere along the way,

we stopped asking what hurts —

and started asking

how well you’re hiding it.

But I won’t grow up

if it means killing

what still feels.

I won’t amputate honesty

to wear your comfort.

I’ll say “I’m sad”

like it’s protest.

Like it’s holy.

Like it’s still allowed.

Because feeling —

raw, feral, inconvenient feeling —

isn’t weakness.

It’s the last honest rebellion

in a world

addicted to pretending.