We all know it. We have all heard it. Many of us have said it. “It could be worse.” At first glance, it seems like a small act of kindness, a gentle nudge towards perspective. Someone grumbles about their boss, their breakup, their endless traffic jam, and we offer this well-worn phrase as though it were a cure. And yet, beneath its surface cheeriness, “it could be worse” often operates less as comfort and more as a quiet dismissal – the conversational equivalent of waving away smoke rather than putting out the fire.
Part of the reason this phrase is so sticky is that it does serve some psychological purpose. Humans crave perspective. We like to compare our lot with those who have less, convincing ourselves that gratitude will take the edge off suffering, and sometimes, it does. Verywell Mind says that rationalisation functions as a common defence mechanism, giving our brains a shortcut to soothe discomfort. Instead of sitting with grief or frustration, we downplay it, reasoning that since there are people who endure greater hardships, ours cannot matter as much.
Cultural habits also play a role. In many societies, there is a deep-seated suspicion of complaint. We are taught to pull ourselves together, to keep perspective, and to avoid being “dramatic”. “It could be worse” has become the tidy, socially acceptable response. Rather than lean into someone else’s pain, we slap perspective over it like wallpaper, hoping no one notices the cracks in the wall.
The problem is that wallpaper cannot stop the wall from crumbling. When “it could be worse” becomes the reflexive response to hardship, it does more harm than good. It diminishes suffering by ranking it on an invisible scale, leaving the person at the bottom feeling ashamed for even bringing it up. Pain, however, does not need to be compared to be valid. The Berkeley Well-Being Institute points out that minimising, a psychological habit of downplaying experiences, undermines the legitimacy of feelings and can leave people feeling isolated.
The damage goes deeper. Brushing away hardship with “it could be worse” interrupts the process of healing. Instead of making space for grief, anger, or exhaustion, it demands suppression. Research has shown that emotional suppression is linked with higher anxiety, depression, and lower overall well-being. One study in PubMed even highlights that comparative thinking, measuring one’s life against others, correlates with worse mental health outcomes across the board. So, while the phrase promises resilience, it often delivers silence and self-doubt.
There is also a darker social cost. When suffering is constantly downplayed, harmful behaviour can flourish unchallenged. Toxic relationships, workplace exploitation, and even abusive environments can be rationalised with the phrase. After all, if others “have it worse”, why should we expect better? This kind of thinking quietly excuses harm, allowing it to go on unchecked.
Even gratitude, that darling of modern wellness culture, can get tangled in this mess. Psychologists warn about what they call the “gratitude trap”, where people feel guilty for experiencing pain because they know they “should” be grateful. In practice, that means telling ourselves our stress, heartbreak, or exhaustion is invalid because at least we are not starving, at least we are not sick, at least “it could be worse”. Instead of becoming a tool for resilience, gratitude morphs into an instrument of denial.
None of this is to say that perspective is worthless. Sometimes, the reminder that life is not as catastrophic as it feels can provide balance. There are moments when a dose of “others have it worse” genuinely helps us avoid spiralling into self-pity. The key lies in how and when we apply it. If comfort begins with validation, then perspective can follow without erasing the reality of someone’s pain. Suffering is not a competition. A scraped knee is not invalid because someone else has broken a leg. Both hurt, and both deserve attention.
“It could be worse” is not inherently a villain, but it does demand careful handling. Too often, it ends up silencing rather than soothing, rationalising rather than recognising, or excusing rather than engaging. At its best, it should open a window to gratitude. At its worst, it slams the door on compassion. The next time we hear ourselves saying it, perhaps there is a better question: are we making room for the pain, or are we shrinking it down to something more convenient?
