When I Thought I Was an Optimist (But I Was Just Afraid)

(Leia em 🇧🇷 Português aqui)

For most of my life, I truly believed I was an optimist.

I smiled through the storms, reassured others when plans fell apart, and prided myself on being the one who could “find the silver lining.” I wore the badge of optimism like a quiet, noble trait: not loud or naive, but steady. Grounded.

But here’s the truth I eventually had to face:

I wasn’t being optimistic. I was just always expecting the worst,  and calling it “realism.” Or, more accurately, self-protection disguised as optimism.

“If I don’t expect too much, I won’t be disappointed.”

That was the mantra. A silent one. I didn’t say it out loud, but it lived in the background of everything:

• Don’t get your hopes up.

• Don’t believe things will go right.

• Don’t trust the good — it doesn’t last.

And yet, on the outside, I looked calm. Maybe even hopeful. I could talk about possibilities. I could dream, but always with an asterisk. Always with backup plans and emotional fire exits.

What I was really doing was lowering the bar so far that life couldn’t let me down. It felt strategic. It felt smart. But it was also exhausting.

The problem with expecting the worst

At some point, I realized something quietly devastating: even when things went well, I didn’t feel the joy I thought I would.

Why? Because I’d already numbed myself. I’d armored up so tightly against disappointment that I couldn’t fully receive delight either.

Anticipating the worst didn’t make the fall any softer. It just stole the excitement, the anticipation, the sweetness of maybe.

It dulled the pain — yes. But it also dulled the living.

Pessimism Isn’t Always Obvious

Not all pessimists are gloomy or cynical. Some of us wear it for practicality. Like wisdom. Like survival.

We call it “not getting carried away” or “being grounded.” We dress it up with logic. We call it maturity.

But what I’ve come to see is this: true optimism isn’t naive. It’s courageous.

To hope and still risk disappointment. To trust, even with uncertainty. To believe, without guarantees.

That takes strength. And heart.

The shift

I’m not fully “cured,” if there’s even such a thing. My instinct still whispers caution. I still catch myself preparing for impact, sometimes before I even know what I’m bracing for.

But now I can see the pattern. I can pause. And more often, I can choose differently.

I can say:

Yes, it might go wrong. But what if it goes right?

I can let hope stretch its arms a little. I can let joy surprise me. I can let life be unpredictable, and still worth showing up for.

In the end...

If you’ve ever expected the worst just to protect your heart, you’re not alone. If you’ve ever called yourself an optimist, but felt numb to joy… I see you.

Maybe we’re not broken. Maybe we’re just learning how to live with open hands instead of closed fists. And maybe the bravest thing isn’t to plan for disaster, but to believe in good things, even when they scare us.