Stop Saying These “Compliments” — They’re Not Kind, They’re Just Loud

There’s a special category of human interaction that deserves its own warning label. Not the obviously cruel stuff—we all know where we stand with that. I’m talking about the comments that arrive wrapped in politeness, maybe even a smile, and then quietly lodge themselves under your skin like a splinter you can’t quite reach. The ones people insist are compliments. The ones you’re expected to graciously accept, nod at, maybe even say thank you for, while your brain is doing that slow, irritated blink of disbelief.

You know the feeling. It’s not rage. It’s not heartbreak. It’s that low-grade, all-day irritation, like a sock seam rubbing your toe the wrong way. Small, persistent, impossible to ignore.

Take the one that shows up when a pet dies or a loved one passes away. Someone leans in, voice soft, eyes earnest, and says, “They’re in a better place now.”

Ah yes. The better place. Which, apparently, is anywhere that is not here with me, the person who loved them, fed them, walked them, worried about them at 3 a.m., and would very much like them back. I know what people mean when they say it. I really do. They want to offer comfort. They want to make sense of loss. But the way it lands can feel like a strange rewrite of reality, where your grief is politely pushed aside so everyone else can feel less uncomfortable about it.

And then there’s the romantic classic, often delivered with a proud little smile: “You’re so beautiful…to me.”

To you. Just you. Congratulations on being the sole holder of this rare opinion. I’m sure the rest of the world has been deeply confused all this time. Again, I get the intention. It’s supposed to sound intimate, personal, loving. But it can land like an accidental insult, implying that beauty is a debate you only barely won.

These moments aren’t rare. They’re everywhere. They show up at family gatherings, doctor’s offices, grocery stores, book events, and awkward hallway conversations where no one knows what to say, so they say something anyway. And somehow, the burden always lands on the person receiving the comment to smooth it over.

“You look great…for your age.”

Translation: Time has betrayed you, but not as badly as expected.

“Wow, you don’t even look sick.”

This one deserves a long pause. Because what, exactly, is sickness supposed to look like? A specific outfit? A facial expression? A brochure I missed? When you live with chronic illness, including sarcoidosis, this comment carries a whole suitcase of assumptions. It suggests that illness should be visible, obvious, maybe even aesthetically convincing. And if it’s not, then you’re somehow winning at being ill, which is a game no one signed up to play.

“You’re actually really smart.”

Actually. As if intelligence was a pleasant plot twist. As if expectations were low and you managed to trip over them on your way to saying something insightful.

“You’ve lost so much weight! You look amazing now.”

Now. As opposed to before, when you were apparently a problem that needed correcting. This one hits especially hard for people whose bodies change because of medication, stress, illness, or grief. Weight loss is not always a celebration. Sometimes it’s a symptom. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s none of anyone else’s business.

And then there’s the gold medal winner, often delivered with a sigh and a head tilt: “You’re so strong. I could never handle what you’re going through.”

This one masquerades as admiration, but it quietly steps away from actual empathy. It turns someone else’s lived experience into an inspirational poster, something to be observed rather than understood. Strength becomes a role you’re expected to play, whether you want to or not, because admitting you’re tired, scared, or angry would ruin the narrative.

Why do people say these things? I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that, usually while standing at the stove or lying awake at night when my body refuses to cooperate. Most of the time, it’s not malice. It’s discomfort. People are uneasy around grief, illness, aging, and anything that reminds them of their own fragility. Silence feels rude, so they reach for words. Unfortunately, those words are often borrowed, unexamined, and clumsy.

Intentions matter, but they don’t cancel impact. You can mean well and still cause harm. You can be kind and still miss the mark. That doesn’t make someone a villain. It makes them human. But it also means we can do better.

So what should people say instead?

When someone is grieving, “I’m so sorry. I’m here.” No metaphors. No cosmic explanations. Just presence.

When someone looks good, “You look fantastic.” Full stop. No qualifiers. No comparisons. No footnotes.

When someone is living with illness, “How are you feeling today?” And then, this part is important, actually listen to the answer. Not the polite version. The real one, if they choose to give it.

And sometimes, the best option is saying nothing at all. Sitting in the quiet. Letting someone exist without commentary. It’s wildly underrated.

Living with chronic illness has given me a front-row seat to how language shapes experience. Sarcoidosis doesn’t just affect my lungs or my heart; it shapes how people interact with me, how they frame encouragement, how they try to make sense of something that doesn’t have a neat ending. Add in writing deadlines, kitchen work, marriage, pets who believe dinner should be served early and often, and you start to crave simplicity in communication. Clear. Honest. Kind without being clever.

Words carry weight. They linger. They replay in your head long after the conversation ends. Choosing them carefully isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present. It’s about recognizing that the person in front of you doesn’t need to be fixed, reframed, or turned into a lesson. They just need to be seen.

If you’ve ever walked away from a conversation feeling oddly deflated and couldn’t quite explain why, chances are one of these phrases was involved. You’re not too sensitive. You’re not ungrateful. You’re responding to something that missed you by inches but still managed to hit.

We can retire these so-called compliments. We can replace them with language that doesn’t sting, doesn’t minimize, doesn’t ask people to perform resilience for the comfort of others. It’s not about policing speech. It’s about choosing care over convenience.

Because life is already demanding enough without having to smile through comments that bruise while pretending they heal.

Have you heard one of these phrases—or a variation of them—that made you pause, wince, or quietly fume on the drive home? I’d love to hear about it. Share your thoughts in the comments, and if this kind of writing resonates with you, consider subscribing so you don’t miss future posts.