I was buying coffee last week when I overheard this exchange at the counter.
“How are you today?” the barista asked the man ahead of me, probably in his fifties, work boots dusty, ordering the cheapest coffee on the menu.
“Can’t complain,” he said, then paused. “Well, I could, but who’d listen?”
They both chuckled, that practiced laugh we use to move past uncomfortable truths. The transaction continued. Nothing changed.
But in that moment, I witnessed something I’ve been thinking about for years: the careful choreography of class-conscious communication that millions of working people perform every single day.
That man wasn’t being humble. He was following a script written long before he memorized it, passed down from people who learned through hard experience that voicing problems to those who can’t or won’t help only marks you as difficult. Or worse, weak.
The economics of emotional disclosure
Growing up in a family that valued restraint above almost everything else, I learned early that complaints were currency you couldn’t afford to spend.
My father, who worked construction for forty years, had his own version of “can’t complain.” It was “still vertical,” accompanied by a slight nod that closed the subject.
What I understand now, after decades of watching power dynamics play out in boardrooms and break rooms alike, is that this wasn’t pessimism. It was risk management.
When you’re economically vulnerable, every interaction carries potential consequences. Complain to the wrong person about your bad back, and suddenly you’re seen as a liability at work. Mention financial stress, and relatives start avoiding you, afraid you’ll ask for money. Express frustration about your situation, and people with more resources unconsciously categorize you as someone who makes poor choices, who can’t manage their life.
The calculation happens in milliseconds: What do I gain by answering honestly? What do I risk? The math almost always favors the shortest, safest response.
Why complaints become dangerous
Here’s something most middle and upper-class people don’t fully grasp: when you lack economic power, complaining isn’t cathartic. It’s evidence that can be used against you.
I’ve watched this dynamic play out countless times. The hourly worker who mentions car trouble to their supervisor suddenly finds their hours cut because they’re seen as unreliable. The renter who complains about maintenance issues gets labeled a problem tenant. The person who admits they’re struggling becomes someone others unconsciously avoid, as if misfortune were contagious.
When you live paycheck to paycheck, maintaining the appearance of stability matters more than emotional authenticity. “Can’t complain” isn’t denial; it’s armor. It protects you from judgment, from pity, from being seen as less capable or deserving.
The truly insidious part is how this protective mechanism gets internalized across generations. Children watch their parents deflect concern, minimize problems, and answer “how are you” with empty pleasantries. They learn that emotional honesty is a luxury they can’t afford. By the time they’re adults, the response is automatic.
The invisible tax on authentic connection
What gets lost in this constant deflection is the possibility of genuine support. When everyone is trained to say “can’t complain,” real problems remain unspoken and unaddressed. Communities that could band together to demand better wages, better working conditions, better treatment, instead maintain isolated silence.
I spent years in negotiation rooms where this dynamic played out at higher stakes. The middle manager who won’t admit the policy doesn’t work. The executive who deflects concerns about morale. Same mechanism, different vocabulary. But at least they had other venues for honest disclosure: therapists, executive coaches, peer groups where vulnerability was safe.
For the working class, those venues rarely exist. Therapy costs money. Support groups meet during working hours. The social clubs and organizations that once provided community have largely disappeared, replaced by nothing.
So “can’t complain” becomes both shield and prison. It protects you from immediate judgment while preventing the connections that might actually improve your situation.
Breaking the pattern without breaking trust
After retirement, I joined a local breakfast group, mostly former tradesmen and factory workers. For months, every response to “how are you” was the standard “can’t complain” or “hanging in there.” The real conversations happened in the parking lot afterward, in careful doses, testing whether honesty would be met with judgment or solidarity.
Gradually, some men started answering differently. Not with complaints, exactly, but with specifics. “Knee’s acting up, but got an appointment Thursday.” “Grandson’s visiting this weekend.” Small disclosures that cracked the door open without tearing it off its hinges.
What changed wasn’t sudden vulnerability but earned trust. These men had proven, through months of showing up, that they wouldn’t weaponize personal information. They wouldn’t offer unwanted advice or, worse, pity. They’d simply nod, maybe share their own specific, and move on.
This is the delicate balance that most advice about “authentic communication” misses. For people conditioned to protect themselves through deflection, sudden openness feels like stepping into traffic. Change happens slowly, in spaces that prove themselves safe through consistency, not promises.
The deeper implications
Understanding this dynamic matters beyond individual conversations. It explains why certain communities seem “resigned” to their circumstances, why mobilizing collective action proves so difficult, why surveys about satisfaction often miss the real story.
When “can’t complain” is your default, you’re not just avoiding negative disclosure. You’re opting out of the possibility that speaking up might change something. This learned helplessness serves those in power perfectly. A workforce that “can’t complain” won’t organize. Tenants who “can’t complain” won’t demand repairs. Citizens who “can’t complain” won’t vote for change.
The brilliance of this system is how it makes oppression look like personal choice. These people could speak up if they wanted to. They’re choosing not to complain. What gratitude! What resilience! What good workers they are!
Meanwhile, the structures that create the conditions they’re not complaining about remain untouched, unexamined, unchanged.
Closing thoughts
That man buying coffee wasn’t wrong to answer “can’t complain.” Within his reality, shaped by decades of experience and generations of inherited wisdom, it was the smartest response available. Quick, safe, ending the interaction without creating obligation or inviting judgment.
The tragedy isn’t in his response but in the system that makes it necessary. In a more equitable world, “how are you” could be a real question with space for a real answer. Complaints could be information rather than liability. Problems could be communal challenges rather than personal failures.
Until then, millions will continue this daily dance of deflection, protecting themselves with the shortest possible answer to questions that were never really meant to be answered anyway. They’re not being dishonest. They’re being strategic in the only way their circumstances allow.
Next time someone answers “can’t complain,” remember: they’re not telling you about their emotional state. They’re telling you about their economic reality. And that silence speaks volumes to those who know how to listen.
