The Exhaustion of Always Being Thankful: How Gratitude Becomes a Cage in Kenya

You wake up and there’s no water. Electricity was rationed again last night. You’re juggling unpaid bills, a stagnant salary (if any), and the quiet hum of anxiety that never quite goes away. But still, you’re expected to say, “At least I’m alive. God is good.”

In Kenya, we’re taught from a young age to be thankful for the bare minimum: the ability to breathe, the chance to wake up, a job that barely pays, or the fact that we’re not in a war zone. Gratitude, in its pure form, is beautiful. But over time, it can also be manipulated into something exhausting—something that keeps us compliant instead of empowered.

When Gratitude Becomes a Muzzle

Gratitude should lift us up. But in many Kenyan households, workplaces, churches, and schools, it's used to shut us down.

We’re told not to complain because “others have it worse.” We’re shamed for being frustrated, told we’re ungrateful, or reminded that we should just be happy to be alive. This kind of gratitude becomes a way of numbing ourselves—a form of psychological gaslighting that keeps us from asking for more.

We confuse survival with living, and resilience with contentment.

How We Were Conditioned

Growing up, many of us learned early that complaint was risky. Expressing dissatisfaction was seen as rude, arrogant, or even dangerous. Religion amplified it—scriptures that speak of thankfulness were often cherry-picked to discourage critical thinking. In school, questioning authority meant punishment. At home, asking “why?” was met with silence or scolding.

In this environment, gratitude wasn’t just encouraged—it was required. Not as a healthy spiritual or emotional practice, but as a means of control.

Systems That Benefit from Our Silence

This culture of thankfulness doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It serves certain systems very well.

When a population is told to be grateful for poor services, bad roads, and broken promises, there’s less pressure for those in power to change. When workers are told to “just be thankful” for any job at all, there’s less incentive for companies to pay fair wages or treat people with dignity.

A quiet, patient, endlessly grateful population is easy to govern—but difficult to inspire.

This isn’t just about politics. It’s also about culture. Employers, parents, pastors, and even peers can reinforce this idea that we’re asking for too much when we want basic dignity, fairness, or comfort.

The Guilt of Wanting More

Perhaps the cruelest part of this conditioning is the internal conflict it creates. Many Kenyans feel guilty for wanting more.

You dream of a better salary, but you tell yourself others are jobless. You want to move out of a toxic home, but you remind yourself that some people are homeless. You want to protest a broken system, but someone whispers, “At least we have peace.”

That voice that tells you not to speak up? That’s not humility. That’s learned helplessness.

You Can Be Grateful and Still Demand More

Here’s the truth: real gratitude doesn’t require silence. You can be thankful for your breath and still want clean air. You can appreciate having a job and still fight for better working conditions. You can love your country and still demand that it treats its people better.

Gratitude and ambition are not enemies. In fact, the deepest form of gratitude may be the kind that pushes us to ensure others don’t have to suffer what we’ve survived.

We need to stop glorifying quiet endurance and start honoring constructive dissatisfaction.

What Does Healthy Gratitude Look Like?

It looks like balance. It acknowledges the good without denying the bad. It’s being thankful and curious. Thankful and outspoken. Thankful and bold.

It sounds like:

“I’m grateful for my education—that’s why I want better for the next generation.”
“I thank God for life—but I also want to live it with dignity.”
“I appreciate what I have—but I know we deserve more.”

Final Thoughts: Gratitude Should Liberate, Not Limit

Being alive is a gift. But life should also be lived, not merely survived. If we’re constantly told to settle, to smile through suffering, and to give thanks for crumbs, we’ll never reach the table where real change happens.

Let’s teach our children that it’s okay to want more. Let’s normalize speaking up. Let’s reclaim gratitude as something that inspires growth, not something that excuses neglect.

Because gratitude shouldn’t be a cage. It should be a compass.

Daniel Arap Moi — The Shadow and the Shepherd: A Deep Dive into Kenya’s Second President

If Jomo Kenyatta was the founding father, Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi was the long-reigning stepfather — sometimes protective, often punitive, and almost always enigmatic. He ruled Kenya for 24 years, the longest of any president to date. To some, he was the gentle teacher, Mwalimu , who kept the nation from tearing apart. To others, he was the architect of a surveillance state, a master of patronage and fear, the man who perfected repression through calm. This is a portrait of Daniel Arap Moi — not just as a ruler, but as a man shaped by modest beginnings, colonial violence, and the hunger for order in a chaotic time. Early Life: The Boy from Sacho Daniel Arap Moi was born on September 2, 1924, in Kurieng’wo, Baringo, in Kenya’s Rift Valley. He came from the Tugen sub-group of the Kalenjin community. His father died when he was just four. Raised by his uncle, Moi’s early life was marked by hardship, discipline, and deep Christian missionary influence. He trained as a teacher at Tambach ...

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