“He Didn’t Complain Once” Is a Trash Compliment for Dying People
Let people scream, cry, curse, and fall apart—especially at the end. Silence isn't strength. It's loneliness dressed up as grace.
They say it like it's supposed to be a compliment. Like if they say it enough, it’ll undo the pain or the death or fix the hurt inside them.
“He never complained once.”
“She was so strong about it.”
“They were so optimistic the whole time.”
And listen—I get it. We want to honor the people we love. We want to wrap their suffering in a narrative that makes us feel proud, like they crossed the finish line without ever letting their knees buckle. We want to say something that makes us feel like we were in the presence of a saint. But maybe—just maybe—what they really needed was to scream into a pillow, throw a plate of the food you cooked against the wall, moan about the pain in their legs, about you being a pain in the ass, curse their god, or just say “this shit sucks” out loud, without anyone wincing or clapping them on the back with a smile like that’ll fix it.
Somewhere along the way, we decided that silence in suffering meant strength. That not complaining was noble. And that’s a damn shame.
You can complain. Hell, you should complain. Especially when you’re dying. When your body is breaking down and every breath feels like glass is crawling out of your throat. When the pain is sharp and stupid and constant. When your body’s leaking, twisting, failing you in ways that feel cruel. When your mind is trying to make peace with the fact that you're about to leave everybody you love and there's no good way to do it. That ain't the time to play nice. That ain't the time to bite your tongue or make sure everybody else is okay with how you're going out. If there was ever a moment to say exactly what the fuck is on your heart, it’s then. Say it. Scream it. Sob it. Spit it through your teeth if you have to. You can tell the world how you feel and it will still turn.
Years ago, I wrote a poem about it, because sometimes poetry can hold a truth that essays choke on:
When You Reach the End
It’s okay to complain
It doesn’t weaken you
It softens you first around the mouth then the eyes
That first breath is a thank you
without airs
You’ll swallow and it’ll go into your belly
And your hands will clasp your throat but it’ll be too late
because once it hits the blood your heart will have it and it’s okay there
Mortally you will feel how it is to be whole and in ruins
There you are
Scream
Roll in the aisles
Cry
Another breath
Breeeeeeeeeeeeeathe
And complain again
you human
Your wildness will die before you and it does not need permission to leave or forgiveness for leaving
This is how you let us know you don’t want to be here any more than we want you here
It’s okay to be undone. I think it’s one of the most human things we can do. You are not a hero because you suffered in silence. You are not a better person because you didn’t let your friends see you cry. There is no bonus level in death for pretending that dying didn’t scare the hell out of you. That’s not grace. That’s performance.
We say “they never complained” and expect applause. We expect the world to hand out gold stars for silence, to name streets after the ones who suffered quietly, to write long, flowery obituaries about how they “fought with dignity” like dignity means shutting up about the pain. We expect grieving families to feel proud their loved one didn’t make a fuss, like that’s the measure of a life well-lived. We expect nurses and doctors and hospice workers to smile and nod at a “model patient” while ignoring the human being dying from the inside out. We expect the dying to become easy to love, easy to mourn, easy to bury. But what if they’re not? What if they’re loud and angry and honest about how much it hurts? What if that’s the real dignity—that they didn’t lie about the leaving?
I want to live in a world where we say, “she cried every day” and someone responds, “good, I hope it helped.” I want us to honor the people who didn’t go quietly—not because they were angry or ungrateful, but because they were alive all the way to the end.
When we create an environment where people feel like they can’t complain, we don’t make them braver—we make them lonelier.
And let me be clear: I’m gonna complain. Loudly. With my whole chest. With no fucks left to give and no interest in keeping the peace. If I stub my toe on the way to hospice, you're gonna hear about it. If I’m hurting, I’m hollering. If I’m scared, I’m saying so. Don’t expect grace and serenity—expect truth. Expect me raw and unfiltered. I’m not dying for applause. I’m dying human. And I want the people I love to remember me that way. Not sainted, not silenced, but honest as hell.
This is your permission slip, if you needed one:
Complain.
Groan.
Be honest.
Be messy.
Let it leak out of you.
Let the people around you know what hurts and what scares you and what you’ll miss. Let them hold you while you say it.
You are not a burden.
You are not weak.
You are not failing at death.
You are living the hell out of your final days. And if that comes with complaints, so be it. It's still holy. It's still worthy. It's still you.
And we will love you through every last syllable.