“I’m Scared of Becoming Bitter”

“I don’t want to be one of those people who walks around angry at the world. But sometimes I feel it rising—resentment, disappointment, a kind of emotional callousness I didn’t have before. I’ve been hurt. I’ve tried to stay kind. But I’m tired. And I’m scared that if I don’t stay vigilant, bitterness will take over.”

— Greg

Dear Greg,

That sentence—“I’m scared of becoming bitter”—holds so much more self-awareness than most people give it credit for. Bitterness is easy to mock from the outside. But from the inside, it doesn’t usually begin as anger. It begins as heartbreak. And your fear of becoming bitter tells me you still care deeply, even if that care is fraying at the edges.

Bitterness is the residue of hope. Of wanting more—for yourself, from others—and not getting it. It’s the slow erosion of belief that life can be fair, people can be good, and love can be returned. It’s what builds when boundaries are tested one too many times, when giving goes unreciprocated, when idealism meets reality and reality wins.

So many emotionally intelligent people wrestle with this. Not because they’re cruel. But because they’ve been kind for a long time—sometimes too long—without support. Without reciprocity. Without rest. And what begins as compassion becomes exhaustion. What begins as faith becomes guardedness. And then they look in the mirror and wonder, When did I start bracing all the time?

That’s the quiet fear you’re naming.

And I want to tell you: it’s valid.

There’s something that happens when you’ve been hurt repeatedly while trying to stay open. You start to feel like a fool for having hope. You question your judgment. You start building walls instead of boundaries. Not because you don’t want connection anymore—but because it began to feel like survival demanded it.

This is what I think of as boundary grief. The mourning that comes when you realize kindness isn’t always enough to keep you safe. That forgiveness has limits. That not everyone deserves access to your softness. And that if you don’t start protecting it, the world will wear it down.

But what you’re afraid of isn’t just bitterness—it’s the loss of your tenderness.

And that tells me you’re still very much in contact with it.

You haven’t gone cold. You haven’t shut down. You’re aware of the shift, and that awareness is your compass. It’s what will keep you from crossing the line between rightful anger and corrosive resentment.

So what do we do when we feel bitterness knocking?

We tell the truth about what hurt us.

We stop sugarcoating the impact of broken trust, unseen effort, or violated boundaries. We stop pretending things didn’t matter when they did. Because unacknowledged pain always finds another outlet—and often that outlet is bitterness.

Then we ask ourselves: Where do I still believe I should be getting something I’m not?

Because bitterness often grows in the gap between expectation and reality. When we hold onto fantasies of how someone should treat us, or how life should unfold, we keep ourselves tied to a script that no one else is reading from. And that gap, when it festers, can sour everything.

This doesn’t mean giving up on hope. It means shifting it toward something sturdier.

Instead of expecting others to finally “get it,” we learn how to honor our own limits.

Instead of waiting for justice from those who wronged us, we give ourselves permission to stop performing kindness.

Instead of carrying the burden of “being the better person,” we start asking what being the whole person would mean.

Because the antidote to bitterness isn’t forced optimism. It’s emotional integrity.

It’s being able to say: That hurt. That was unfair. That exhausted me. I deserved better. And then acting in alignment with those truths.

Greg, sometimes what we call bitterness is actually just long-deferred self-protection. It’s your system saying, I don’t want to keep being exposed to pain I never deserved. That’s not cynical. That’s wisdom.

So don’t run from this feeling. Sit with it. Ask what it’s trying to tell you. Let it point you toward what needs attention, release, or repair.

You don’t have to choose between kindness and boundaries.

You don’t have to abandon your empathy to protect your peace.

But you do have to stop offering your energy to people and places that drain it without care.

And you get to stop proving that you’re good by tolerating what hurts.

Bitterness only takes root when we silence our grief. When we deny our anger. When we keep trying to stay soft in situations that demand a harder line.

But when you listen to yourself—really listen—you make space for a new kind of strength. One that isn’t brittle. One that doesn’t calcify. One that protects without punishing.

So if you feel yourself pulling back, becoming a little colder, a little less trusting—don’t panic. Ask why. And let that answer guide you home to yourself, not away from it.

You're not becoming bitter, Greg.

You're becoming discerning.

And that’s a path back to integrity—not away from it.

With you in this,
–RJ