An Argument for Healthy Denial: A Self-Help Sermon for the Self-Indulgent

Let’s be honest. You’ve tried the soft-glow Instagram mantras and the overpriced journaling apps. You’ve danced with dopamine like a lab rat in a Vegas casino, chasing every ping, snack, scroll, and retail hit like it was divine revelation. And where has it gotten you? Nowhere worth photographing.

So here’s your wake-up call, preacher-style, minus the tambourine: take care of your damn self. Not in that syrupy “self-care” way that means binge-watching prestige TV while mainlining DoorDash and calling it therapy. No, I mean the kind of care that involves discipline, boundaries, and strategic discomfort—also known as healthy denial.

Phil Stutz is right: your relationship with your body, your soul, and the people around you depends on your ability to say “no” like your life depends on it—because it does. Not “no” out of self-loathing or ascetic performance art, but “no” because you actually give a damn about the human being you’re becoming.

You don’t skip the donut because you hate yourself. You skip it because you respect yourself enough not to let your biology, your boredom, or your bastardized idea of “treat culture” run your life. You are not a French bulldog in a baby stroller. You are a fully grown adult with responsibilities and, presumably, a spine.

And no, this isn’t some narcissistic glow-up project. You’re not chiseling your abs to become a thirst trap or launching your “healing journey” vlog. This is not a TED Talk in the making. This is about getting better because the people who count on you deserve more than your bloated, distracted, half-baked self. Society doesn’t need another dopamine junkie sucking on algorithmic pacifiers while pretending to be “living their truth.”

Yes, some will tell you denial is toxic, puritanical, even abusive. These are the same people who believe “treating yourself” five times a day is a human right. But let’s get something straight: healthy denial is not self-hatred—it’s self-respect with a steel backbone. You deny yourself garbage because you’re aiming for gold. You crave meaning, not just muffins. You want to die with fewer regrets, not a legacy of half-eaten potato chips and unread terms of service.

So here’s what you’re going to do.
You will stop snacking. Period.
You will stop scrolling like a brainless peasant begging for dopamine crumbs from tech oligarchs.
You will stop curating materialistic trinkets—yes, even the “limited edition” timepieces—and broadcasting your conspicuous consumption like a status-starved magpie.

Instead, you will create.

You will write.
You will make music.
You will work out with the devotion of a monk in a burning temple.
You will show up for your family like it matters—because it does.
And you will treat your time on this spinning sphere not as an entitlement but as the limited-edition miracle it is.

This is not about being better than others. This is about being better for others. And if that sounds corny to you, maybe you’ve been swimming in irony so long you’ve forgotten what sincerity feels like.

Here’s your new gospel: eat clean, think clearly, serve humbly, and waste nothing—not even time.

Now get to it. The clock is ticking, and you’re not getting any younger.