Cynicism will kill you
Inertia — 212
The news is bleak for cynics—it’s true in more ways than one.
At one point, I started thinking cynicism would make me smarter. People wore it like a badge of honour, holding a sign saying ‘distrust’ to proclaim that they couldn’t be fooled. It’s in my nature to speak of hope and silver linings. But when the I told you so’s of a cynic started winning more often, the ones who quietly say I see through things, I started reconsidering.
We live in a world that rewards crooked posture and a bleak stance, so it’s no wonder the cynics get what they want. Turn on the news, scroll through comments, listen to a typical dinner party conversation. Cynicism passes for wisdom, which is hollow at best. And the quickest way to sound intelligent in a room is to explain why good things won’t last, efforts will fail, or why people cannot be trusted.
No one thinks about how much this stance will cost them in the future. The silent toll of always expecting the worst. This cynicism isn’t just predicting a darker world—it is creating one.
Hollow wisdom
There’s a difference between looking carefully at life and deciding in advance what you want to see. Healthy scepticism asks questions, holds judgments until evidence arrives, and remains curious and flexible. It’s open to surprise.
Cynicism has already reached its verdict. It comes pre-disappointed. It doesn’t look for long because it believes it already has the answer.
We confuse these positions constantly. We believe cynicism protects us from disappointment, manipulation, and looking foolish. When someone hurts us or something like an institution fails, cynicism rushes to say, “I told you so. Next time, don’t hope”.
The research tells a different story. It shows that cynics generally don’t spot liars better than trusting people. They don’t make better decisions. They don’t protect themselves better from wounds. Instead, there are lower levels of happiness, flourishing, and satisfaction. And there are greater incidents of depression and loneliness. It’s not just from the neck up.
You also see more instances of cellular inflammation, heart disease, and decaying mortality. You may also earn less money than your less cynical counterparts. The armour you wear turns out to be just a cage.
More of us are drinking the poison than before
One of the great protectors of our health is our sense of connection to other people. A cynic usually struggles to be vulnerable and “touch base” with others, which explains why chronic stress and inflammation would take over—not just in your mind, but throughout your body and organs.
Take time to consider what Thomas Hobbes said in Leviathan, that we need a restrictive government because humans, left to their devices, would make life into something solitary, violent, brutish and short. Ironically, it may describe the cynics themselves more than most people, but it crucially points to a negative correlation between cynicism and what outcomes we want from our lives.
I’ve sat with friends in the past, having conversations about what felt wrong in the world. The conversation initially has a satisfying rhythm from the shared outrage, and we felt clever and right. It’s as if we understood how broken everything was.
But afterwards, I’d feel empty; we solved nothing. Helped nothing. Cynicism is great at making you feel momentarily superior while sealing you further inside yourself.
There’s a hidden cost: cynicism isolates. It builds walls where we need bridges. It convinces us not to vote, volunteer or speak up when we need to—because what’s the point? It turns neighbours into threats and community into competition. It makes us withhold a genuine presence with other people. One of the few things with healing powers.
No wonder research says cynical communities do worse by almost every measure. When we expect selfishness, we act to protect ourselves first. When we expect generosity, we open doors to it. I know because more fortune has come into my life from genuine optimism than the opposite.
What cynicism misses
On any given day, in any given place, small kindnesses are happening everywhere. People are sitting with ageing parents and feeding strangers. They’re telling the truth when lies would be easier. They’re standing up for someone they don’t know.
Goodness doesn’t make headlines, though. Pain shouts and kindness whispers. Our brains work to notice threats more than steady support. We remember betrayal more vividly than a hundred moments of natural care.
And we develop a distorted picture of reality. We see the world through a lens smudged by pain, not realising that our vision has narrowed.
Many people consistently underestimate how decent other people are. They think themselves more generous than their neighbours. They expect others to act more selfishly than they do. They lean on cynicism when it isn’t clear-sightedness—it’s an error in perception.
I’m not suggesting blind trust. Pain is real, systems fail people, and cruelty is sometimes chosen. But what if we went back to approaching life like scientists instead of cynics? What if, instead of assuming we already know the truth about everyone, we remained curious enough to keep learning? What if we gathered evidence instead of jumping to conclusions?
This is healthy scepticism—the practice of simply not knowing for sure, of questioning assumptions but staying open to being wrong.
You would look back on your most cynical years and see how much you missed because you’d hardly remember those times. The friendships you held at arm’s length or opportunities you walked past because you were certain of disappointment. And much beauty you failed to notice because you were busy scanning for threats.
There's a healthy courage in believing things can be better. In acting as if people matter. In showing up and speaking out, even though it might go wrong. But people won’t remember that for long, anyway.
Whenever we choose connection over withdrawal, participation over apathy, or tough hope over easy cynicism, we're achieving something almost unnoticeable yet significant. We're refusing to let our worst experiences define our whole worldview. The evidence, and my own history, suggest this choice will make us happier, healthier, and clearer-seeing. But even if it didn't, I'd argue it's worth it anyway.
Because in the end, cynicism creates disappointment by closing doors and building a life smaller than one we might have lived. I don’t want that. Do you?
What if, instead, we chose to keep showing up? What if we risked being occasionally fooled rather than consistently closed? What if we remembered that pain is a natural part of life, and how we carry it is our choice?
I think we'd build a different world. Not perfect. Not painless. But more true to the complicated beauty of being human together.
That seems worth it to me.