Ingratitude. Ungrateful. They are words that cut deeply when it’s thrown your way—especially when it couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve been accused of being ungrateful, and yet I can’t help but wonder: what exactly am I supposed to be grateful for? The pain? The sacrifices? The constant battle to stay afloat while the world continues to demand more?
Let me be clear—I am profoundly grateful for my baby girl. She is the light in my darkest moments, my reason for pushing forward when it feels impossible. But gratitude for her doesn’t erase the hardships I face. It doesn’t negate the sacrifices I’ve made or the pain I endure daily.
I’ve spent my life making sacrifices. I started working when I was just 15 years old, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I’ve given up opportunities, shelved my dreams, and put my education on hold over and over again. And when life threw its heaviest punches, I bore them quietly. There are so much more to list but then comes Ingratitude’s friend, Complaining. But that is a topic for another day.
I’ve lost a child—a pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I’ve faced every day with the weight of grief, even as I cared for my other baby, because being a mother doesn’t allow you the luxury of falling apart. I’ve endured excruciating pain to bring both of my children into this world, pain I’m reminded of every day as I push through life with a body that feels like it’s betraying me.
And yet, I keep going. Despite my chronic illness, despite the fact that I have no diagnosis or treatment plan after four long years of searching for answers, I still manage to juggle two jobs. I work from home, not because it’s convenient or easy, but because it’s the only way I can ensure my baby is cared for while I earn an income.
I prioritize my family daily, pouring my energy into being a present and loving mother, a committed and loving wife, all while managing the invisible burdens I carry. I never tell my husband ‘no’. I may request a raincheck depending on pain levels, but he is also never neglected. I cook as much as I can, I maintain a household (now with some assistance) and I study part time.
So, what about my pain? Am I supposed to be grateful for it? Am I expected to smile through the suffering, as if it hasn’t left me broken in ways I can’t always articulate? Gratitude is not about ignoring hardship or pretending life is perfect. It’s about recognizing the good amidst the chaos, and I do. But gratitude doesn’t cancel out the reality of my struggles, and it shouldn’t have to.
What cuts even deeper, though, is when the accusation of ingratitude comes from someone close to you—someone who should see your pain, your sacrifices, and your resilience. How would that feel? It feels like a betrayal, like the foundation of trust has been shaken. It’s isolating, as if all the effort you’ve poured into holding everything together has gone unnoticed or been dismissed entirely.
People often speak of gratitude as if it’s a switch you can flip to make everything better. But what they don’t understand is that gratitude can coexist with pain, anger, and exhaustion. It’s not an all-or-nothing equation. I can be grateful for what I have while still feeling the weight of what I’ve lost, of what I’m enduring, of what I’ve had to give up.
When someone accuses you of ingratitude, they’re often looking from the outside in. They don’t see the sleepless nights, the physical and emotional toll, the quiet moments where you question how much more you can take. They don’t see you holding it all together when every fiber of your being wants to fall apart. When the someone doing the accusing sees all of the aforementioned and still does it? It breaks a part of you, no matter how strong you try to be.
To those who would call me ungrateful, I ask: would you walk a day in my shoes? Could you? Gratitude is not the absence of suffering. It’s the resilience to keep moving forward despite it.
And so, I will keep going. I will carry my pain, my love, my losses, and my gratitude with me, even when others fail to see the full picture. I will continue to give my all, not because I’m ungrateful, but because I know no other way to live. This post has alot of I’s but I need to hear myself, if the person I need to hear me doesn’t want to listen.
– A Quiet Echo, Freya
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” – Rumi