In Defense of Sorrow
The paradox of finding joy in misery.
Illustration by F. Barnard from “Sunlight and Shade. Being Poems and Pictures of Life and Nature.”
“I have two hobbies,” I once joked to my spouse. “Looking at stuff and getting upset.”
Since departing from the algorithm (or at least TikTok, Instagram, X, and Facebook), I’ve come to realize how true that statement is. Social media, particularly TikTok, had given me a quick fix of sorrow for the past several years and I realized I needed to unplug because it had become the sole provider of my two hobbies. I could look at stuff for hours and it was highly likely what I saw was going to upset me. I had “succeeded” in cultivating an algorithm that gave me all the bad news, all the tragic breakup tales, all the stories of injustice in the world, with a magnetic pull so strong that I’d completely neglected the true and edifying source of misery: art. In fact, sometimes my TikTok feed would chastise me for the sad art I’d enjoyed, making its own short-form videos of actual pain feel like the most ethically sourced misery I could obtain.
In between showing me LGBT people who’d been disowned or murdered for the crime of existing, immigrants who were being ripped away from their families, agoraphobic young women who documented everything they did in their shadowy bedrooms with plates of rotting food fermenting beneath their beds, step-by-step breakdowns of how my marriage might be in danger and could be taken from us at any moment under the authoritarian rule of Project 2025, and stories of women being emotionally and physically abused by the men in their lives who they’d loved and trusted the most, I was told the art I love is bad. In fact, it’s so bad and morally objectionable that there’s a special name for it: trauma porn.
WHAT IS “TRAUMA PORN?”
At face value, I’d assumed trauma porn was the natural evolution of the phrase “torture porn,” a phrase which came from the media condemning the Saw franchise for its graphic violence and implying fans of the film must have obtained a sick sense of gratification from all the gore. A Google search revealed this isn’t the case. The term “trauma porn” has nothing to do with pornography or sexual gratification. In fact, it stems from America’s history of racism.
The first article I found which utilized the phrase “trauma porn” was Blue Telusma’s brilliant and heart-wrenching 2019 piece from The Grio titled “Before You Share ‘Trauma Porn’ videos on Social Media, Consider These Critical Things.” This article was sparked by Telusma’s pain after footage of the fatal, racist shooting of Nipsey Hussle began circulating on social media. I cannot emphasize enough how powerful and moving this article is, and I highly recommend you read it for yourself. It’s in this piece that Telusma defines trauma porn as “any type of media – be it written, photographed or filmed – which exploits moments of adversity to generate buzz, notoriety or social media attention.” Living in 2025, after the horrific murder of George Floyd and with Palestinians suffering an onslaught of atrocities beyond human comprehension, I’m sure we’ve all experienced the stomach-churning sensation of accidentally catching a glimpse of trauma porn. You can’t convince me watching that one heart-wrenching scene in My Girl or reading Bridge to Terabithia gave you the same feeling.
Condemning actual trauma porn is very, very important. Sharing and viewing horrific footage of real-life traumatic events only shares the pain and trauma felt by real, living human beings who suffered horrific injustices. It doesn’t raise awareness. It causes more harm to victims, their families, and their communities. However, misusing the term to silence art which really does raise awareness towards problems people face is a cruel disservice to artists and victims alike. We need to uphold the arts now, more than ever, and applaud artists who are brave enough to openly discuss uncomfortable or painful topics at length.
“Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem” (1630) by Rembrandt
LISTENING TO STUFF AND GETTING UPSET.
Like many other thirty-somethings and nearly-thirty-somethings, my favorite band in the world as a pre-teen was My Chemical Romance. I was a somewhat lonely child, who was bullied pretty badly because of a voice disorder that made me an easy target who stood out in a diverse school in Sacramento, CA. The nasal vocals and angst-ridden lyrics of the emo acts of the late 2000s lured me in like a siren song, but My Chemical Romance stood out above the rest. Despite being labeled by The Daily Mail as a “suicide cult band,” all those nerds (I’m using the word “nerds” affectionately here) from New Jersey really did was express their pain and outrage at the darkness of living in a post 9/11 America. While other bands in the emo scene tended to focus on breakups, makeups, and relationship drama, My Chemical Romance was enamored with real atrocities. They wrote songs about losing a loved one to cancer, post-traumatic stress disorder from witnessing atrocities in war, longing for a life after death so you can see your loved ones again, and in my personal favorite, they addressed the hypocrisy of authority figures in organized religion labelling others as sinners.
My Chemical Romance wasn’t just another emo band to me. Even as a twelve-year-old, I knew they were different. They were making art. Real, true art that was about something bigger than me, the bullies at school, my voice disability, or my mediocre grades in math class. As an adult, it’s not shocking that the media was so determined to silence them. Despite having no lyrics encouraging acts of self-harm, they were frequently denigrated and accused of promoting suicide. Meanwhile, I found that the catharsis of their lyrics made me want to truly live and make art of my own. My Chemical Romance showed me that I wasn’t alone. That’s what sad art does. While uptight news reporters were accusing the band of promoting darkness, kids like me were finally feeling seen and comforted with the knowledge that they weren’t the first person to experience cancer in their family, question their faith, experience trauma from things they’d seen in the past, or hope for an afterlife and some meaning to all the suffering in the world.
These days I find myself listening to slower and softer songs, which are still no less sad. Despite being the opposite of a heterosexual divorced dad (a gay married childless lady), I can’t stop listening to the 2023 duo of albums from The National, First Two Pages of Frankenstein and Laugh Track. Just like when I was a kid listening to My Chemical Romance, there’s something in the lyrics written by Matt Berninger that help remind me I’m not alone. I’m not the first adult to experience the hand-wringing anxiety of following my partner around at a party in hopes that I might become cooler and calmer by proxy. His lyrics, particularly in the sweeping track Once Upon a Poolside, just grab me by the throat.
I can’t stop talking, I can’t stop shakin’
I can’t keep track of everything I’m taking
Everything is different, why do I feel the same?
Am I asking for too much? Can’t hear what you’re sayin’
Some of the things Matt Berninger softly croons on those albums leave me feeling like he peeked at my diary or listened in on my therapy sessions. Bearing that in mind, I’ve seen people scoff at The National for simply being too thematically depressing. I suppose it’s simply a different experience for those of us who know what it’s like to be a nervous wreck when you’re too old for shyness to be cute anymore. Still, I like to imagine a movement like the one against My Chemical Romance, accusing The National of encouraging anxiety-ridden adults to avoid going out to parties with their friends and stay at home alone instead.
The Dirge in Psara (1888) by Nikēphoros Lytras
WATCHING STUFF AND GETTING UPSET.
Sad, dark, and disturbing cinema has been making audiences and critics alike uncomfortable for a while now. Michael Haneke is one of my favorite directors and I can’t think of a single film of his that I could recommend that wouldn’t ruin your day. There’s nothing fun, light, or breezy about sitting through a Haneke film, and that’s intentional. Alyssa Miller wrote a brilliant article for No Film School about how his movies are deliberately uncomfortable. In it, she discusses his drive to make films comprised of “ideal scenes.” She defines these as “unforgettable moments, whether that is violence on or off-screen or the weight of a conversation in the context of the film. When the ideal scenes are done correctly they can deliver a gut punch that elevates the film.”
I’ve found that audiences are becoming less and less welcoming to ideal scenes. Sometimes they react with outright hostility or feel the need to draw attention to themselves, as if to announce to the rest of the crowd “I DO NOT APPROVE OF WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW.” We live in an age where people are accused of condoning acts of violence just for watching a movie with violence, so I suppose it’s hardly shocking.
For example, when I saw Robert Eggers’ 2024 remake of Nosferatu, the theater erupted into hysterical laughter at some of the darkest scenes of yearning, desperation, and agony I’d seen in a movie theater in quite some time. As Lily-Rose Depp’s Ellen Hutter descended into madness and writhed in agony the strangers around me laughed loudly and shamelessly. Rather than letting themselves become fully immersed in the ideal scene, the audience rejected it and responded with the sort of ironic jeering that’s become commonplace from movie-goers. We don’t want to experience anything deeper or more profound than a quick jumpscare and a witty Marvel “well, that just happened!” one-liner.
The oldest article I could find referring to this phenomenon is a 2011 piece from the Chicago Tribune titled When People Laugh at Serious Movies. In it, the writer describes their shock and rage when the audience during a theater’s screening of the film Precious burst into hysterical laughter during a scene of child abuse. I fear this problem is only worsening, now egged on by Marvel and Disney movies that feel the need to quickly undercut a sad scene with a joke or an eyeroll rather than let the crowd sit with their feelings.
Just like with sad music, we’re feeling increasingly threatened any time something tries to make us feel something. We don’t want to feel anything anymore. We just want to see some memes.
READING STUFF AND GETTING UPSET.
I love reading. Since 2023, I’ve challenged myself to reading at least 12 books a year (a challenge which I failed in 2023, but made up for with 17 books last year). This February I read the book which sparked the idea of me even writing the post you’re reading now. Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life. For every TikTok of a reader sobbing, throwing the book, and discussing how unbearably sad it was, there was a YouTube video essay discussing A Little Life and sorting it into a new subgenre of literature I’d never heard of before. They called it “trauma porn.” Now knowing the history and context of where the term originated, I don’t think I’m wrong for saying this is an inaccurate and problematic assessment of the book. I also don’t think “it’s too sad” is a valid criticism of any work of art.
Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of reasons to hate the book. The author’s refusal to research the realities of psychiatry and self-harm are perfectly fine reasons to dislike it, for example. However, I think all the condemnation of A Little Life for being too sad completely misses the point. A work of art doesn’t owe you joy or a happy ending.
For those who haven’t read it: as the title implies, the book follows the little life of a man named Jude. He’s disabled and has a traumatic background of being groomed and sex trafficked as a child. Now, as an adult, Jude has absolutely zero coping mechanisms and spends his adulthood simultaneously trying to better himself and trying to destroy himself. His life is the life of many others who’ve survived sex trafficking. It’s the life of many people with disabilities that will never go away. There’s no denying that Jude’s life is sad, but it’s not worthless because it’s sad. There are glimpses of beauty and joy in his life. Who are we to throw those beautiful moments away because we’re too dismayed by the trauma he endured and the terrible way he’s handling it?
Who are we to say it’s unrealistic that so many bad things could happen to one person? Do we say the same thing to sex trafficking victims? Do we scoff and say, “uh huh, sure,” to people who cry and tell us about the multiple abusive relationships they’ve endured because more than one is just unrealistic? Are we upset when people who’ve suffered through trauma are imperfect and sometimes even cruel rather than a precious broken doll we can fix?
I find that people (especially Americans) love to cling to the notion that there’s a reason for everything. Art like the book A Little Life challenges this idea. There’s no good to be found when a child is taken against their will and harmed. It wasn’t in God’s plan. It’s just a terrible thing and all we can do with that terrible thing is trying to help the victim heal. Victims of abuse don’t owe you optimism and people with lifelong disabilities don’t owe you inspiration. People who are disabled or have experienced trauma are allowed to be upset by the unfair circumstances of their lives. They’re allowed to be as obnoxious and flawed as everyone else is.
“But Men Must Work and Women Must Weep” (1883) by Walter Langley
LOOKING AT STUFF AND GETTING UPSET.
I'm here to ask, why is it wrong to make a heartbreaking piece of art? Is a film, song, or novel that descends into darkness worthless? Do we avoid Of Mice and Men or Dancer in the Dark or The Boy in the Striped Pajamas or Romeo and Juliet or Lilya 4-Ever or The Road or The Bridge to Terabithia or The Lovely Bones or Charlotte's Web because these works descend into darkness? Or do we find meaning through the sorrow and grow and learn?
We need to open our hearts to empathy. We need to take a leap and allow ourselves to feel something true and deep, even if it might hurt and even if we’re afraid of that pain. You can’t tell a book it would look prettier if it smiled for you. You have to endure the darkness it’s depicting and realize that there are experiences outside of your own, even if you wish those experiences weren’t real. Instead of giving in to discomfort and scoffing at a piece of media for being too sad, let yourself feel that sadness. Face the truth that the world is painful and feel the pain of others. It's through letting ourselves feel sadness and discomfort that we can be better equipped to show real kindness to those around us when they’re going through tragedy.
In 2025, we need to open our hearts and minds to the strange and sad more than ever. That’s the only way we can be there for each other in a quest for true joy and peace. I think that’s a whole lot more valuable than expecting everyone to fake a smile.
I’d like to add that this doesn’t apply to people who suffer from trauma or mental illness or simply cannot handle dark art for personal reasons. Don’t force yourself to experience art that you’re not in a place emotionally to handle and don’t treat disturbing cinema or dark literature as a test of strength. Please take care of yourselves and be kind to yourself and those around you.