Today, there are happiness consultants, happiness coaches, happiness summits, and happiness workplace seminars, which in some cases may be mandatory for employees. There are more than 70 TED Talks tagged with “happiness” or related themes, with tens of millions of views. Amazon’s pages contain more than 100,000 hits for happiness literature as the self-help shelves continue to brimmeth over. Some companies have even enlisted in-house happiness experts, most notably Google’s Jolly Good Fellow, hired for the purpose of making sure employees report that they’re not just doing their jobs, but are doing them with delight.

Globally, , according to trade group Global Wellness Institute, which estimates that the staggering sum includes everything from beauty and anti-aging ($999 billion) to wellness tourism ($563 billion) to nutrition ($648 billion). Yet despite the trillions of dollars, the branding, and the brassy platitudes, Americans remain among the most miserable people on earth.

Happiness in this country—if you were to even try to measure it—has plunged. In 2007, the United Nations ranked the United States as the third happiest nation in the world, but in 2017, itÌę. As , “for 80 years, young Americans have been getting more anxious and depressed, and no one is quite sure why.” Among the dreary subsets of analysis is that of Angus Deaton, a Nobel laureate in economics, who found that since 1990, middle-aged white Americans have been even as mortality rates elsewhere in the world are increasing.

The question is: Where are we going wrong?

Human beings have kicked around the concept of what individual happiness means for centuries, from the Bible to the ancient Greeks to the 1859 bestseller . Part of the issue, both then and now, is that the conversation around happiness itself is a luxury, says Jennifer Hecht, philosopher and author of . Having money affords us the opportunity to discuss whether or not we are happy, rather than having to focus on fulfilling primary needs. Despite being told otherwise, once you’re able to provide for your family, there can be diminishing returns on money’s capacity to cultivate it. That’s why the industry really only exists for those with money, Hecht says. They’re the ones who keep trying to find happiness by experimenting with newfangled (and expensive) methods, trusting that spending power is the fast track to their end goal.

As upper-middle-class dwellers continue to throw dollars at their happiness problem, the gap between their efforts and their results grows wider. And thus begins the downward spiral.

But Amy Childs, a self-proclaimed skeptical happiness consultant since 2002, believes that “happiness” isn’t meant only for those with the resources to financially invest in it. “I hate being lumped in with people who say, ‘You just need to manifest it. Do your passion and you’ll make money and be fine,’” Childs says. “It makes my skin crawl. It’s such an upper-middle-class attitude.”

Childs offers tiered pricing based on income and age and does many pro bono one-on-one sessions and events, partially to combat the notion that happiness consulting is available only to the wealthy. In recent years, she has redoubled her efforts to offer her services to communities that may have not been able to access them before, often largely due to cost or location.

Her point is that spending large sums of money on various methods to achieve happiness likely won’t get you there, even if you have the disposable income to do so. “The truth is if you can pay $3,000 to go to a happiness workshop, you’d probably be happier giving that money away to something you care about,” Child says.

Another factor hurting our happiness is probably open in one of your tabs right now: social media. While it can connect us in powerful ways, it’s no substitute for real human connection, and it also can foster near-constant comparison and insecurity. Those counterproductive digital distractions may also keep us from spending time confidently alone, whether that’s dining in a restaurant or spending time meditating. The happiest people have a balance of healthy alone and community time, Hecht says.

In fact, a desire to connect in real life despite steady “connection” through our digital feeds may be part of what has helped fuel the self-help movement and the happiness industry at large. People pay to visit packed convention centers to see author and entrepreneur Tony Robbins dart around a stage and reveal advice. They spend thousands of dollars for a long weekend with the Landmark Forum, a “personal and professional growth” company that to “have the possibility not only of success, but also of fulfillment and greatness.” Rhonda Byrne’s Ìę has seen explosive sales and gathered an impassioned following, even as researchers have debunked many of its core premises. And there is seemingly no end to the silent retreats, digital detox destinations, vegan cruises, and more that promise to make us happier.

But that’s precisely part of the magic, Hecht says. These events bring people together in a like-minded setting and, in turn, often help participants leave far happier simply by having spent time with others away from their screens. “They’re all together and there’s somebody on stage saying, ‘We can do it!’” Hecht says.

Others are rebelling against the commodification of happiness at the expense of experiencing real-life ups and downs. The value in not being constantly upbeat reveals itself in both practical and abstract iterations. In her book , Barbara Ehrenreich makes the case for why it’s virtuous for workplaces to have some pessimists on hand. Fact-checkers help journalists and editors avoid errors and provide accuracy to readers. Acknowledging pain and discomfort motivates someone to get that lump checked out by a doctor. Recognizing chronic sadness may encourage someone to reach out to a friend, family member, or counselor rather than concealing the distress.

Positive thinking, Ehrenreich says, is part of the fabric of American ideology. “The consumer culture encourages individuals to want more—cars, larger homes, television sets, cellphones, gadgets of all kinds,” she says. “And positive thinking is ready at hand to tell them they deserve more and can have it if they really want it and are willing to make the effort to get it.” It may serve economics, but it doesn’t serve the individual on a deeper level, particularly when it comes to bracing for struggle or adversity.

That’s not to say that being optimistic or hopeful isn’t important. But to experience those feelings, you may have to accept that you’re in a situation that needs improvement. Our current understanding of happiness as an end product of positive thinking doesn’t necessarily allow for that.

If workplaces that enlist happiness consultants really care about worker satisfaction, why not offer better maternity and paternity policies? Daycare options? They could advise managers to stop calling workers to come in on weekends or expect them to answer emails late on weeknights. Many happiness workplace endeavors fall flat simply because they reek of authenticity, a buffoonish effort more befitting of a plotline for Michael Scott on The Office than a true effort to improve work life.

Maybe the current obsession with happiness is less about Americans’ constitutionally sanctioned pursuit of it and more about discomfort with sadness. Suffering, in any fashion, is not romantic. In a culture obsessed with happiness, Americans may not be allowing for acceptance that it’s OK to sometimes not be perky. But should we choose to have a more balanced approached toward our emotions and stop constantly trying to “do” in order to find happiness, we may actually better our chances of achieving it, both collectively as a nation and individually as unique members of society.

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On a recent sun-drenched Sunday afternoon in New York City’s Bryant Park, Elyse Fox was laying out picnic blankets, colored pencils, squares of paper, and pink plastic cups with water.

The 27-year-old founder of the , a popular Instagram account devoted to destigmatizing mental health, particularly for young women and people of color, had taken her mission outdoors and IRL. It was time for their monthly art therapy gathering, an open invitation to any of the account’s 16,900 followers. Ingrid Mellor, an art therapist, was on hand, and the two hugged new arrivals, one by one, as they made their way to theÌęblankets and art supplies. Many they recognized from previous meetups, but many were new faces.

Although a peaceful scene, these gatherings and the Sad Girls Club account mark a rebellion against today’s social media culture at large and, specifically, against Instagram. Fox believes the platform’s insidious influencer culture—the reason your feed is filled with perfect images of healthy, happy wellness gurus espousing feel-good truisms—may actually create a toxic environment for users. She and other critics posit that young women struggling with mental or emotional health battles are the most vulnerable.

“I think that we don’t really see representations of these girls or women who are openly speaking about mental health and the struggles that come along with it,” says Fox. “It’s covered up. We only see the niceness and positives. It’s hard for other girls who are going through difficult things, but they don’t have that representation in the media.”

Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube have sparked a booming industry of so-called influencers—people with large-scale followings who are paid considerable sums by large companies to tout their products or ideas. What started for many as a side gig is now, by some estimates, a . In April, even the Federal Trade Commission had to take notice, sending to influencers, nudging them to clearly disclose their product and brand relationships.

It’s perhaps an extreme, lucrative corner of a digital culture that many users are beginning to find odious. A of more than 400 undergraduates in Utah found that most respondents who spent more time on Facebook each week felt that other people—those whose lives they witnessed via social media—were happier and more fulfilled, compared to themselves. The found that “passive consumption” of your friends’ social media feeds and your own “broadcasts” to followers may be tied to feelings of loneliness or depression.

Instagram influencers project a specific, highly crafted image of perfection—one that is largely white, thin, and psychologically Zen. Critics argue that this boom, in turn, has helped fuel excessive self-promotion in which we post about only the good moments rather than reality—essentially a distorted echo chamber. Not to mention the self-denial, self-critique, and, in its worst iterations, constant self-comparison that the industry has fostered in many followers.

Yet there is some reason for optimism, as a growing number of individuals are using Instagram as a platform from which to launch their counternarrative to these often hypocritical, manicured displays.

The Sad Girls Club is such a group. As members try to rewrite the wellness story, they aren’t alone. Instagram now has accounts like and , which similarly extol the virtues of healthy living inside and out beyond the willowy wellness marketing tropes, with hashtags like #trailsnotscales and images of women to body shaming. The hope is that by creating a safe space for dialogue about the real parts of life, these digital gatherings will help individuals engage with others about their problems and, in the long term, begin to heal.

In the case of Fox, it was easier to tell her friends and family about her battle with depression digitally than admit to it in person. Before starting her account, she had been one of those people who posted about all the good moments and none of the bad. “It looked like I had the perfect life online,” says Fox. “But they couldn’t see how I was living internally.” Last winter, she finally documenting her struggles and experienced overwhelming support from friends and family that helped take her to a much healthier place. Sad Girls Club grew from that response.

What Fox had originally conceived as an account for a couple of fans had international followers within weeks, she says. FoxÌęlaunched a Kickstarter to raise funds for a mental health circuit for the account, but it fell short of its $20,000 goal. That failure prompted her to refocus on expanding its base in New York and online. Since December, the group has met once a month and built a stronghold of followers. That rapid growth speaks to the need for such online communities that go far beyond the glossy realms of influencers.

“Building relationships outside of a platform is new to Generation Z,” says Fox. “But I feel like that’s something I grew up on and has been helpful for me.”

Em Odesser, a 17-year-old from New York, said she was drawn to the Sad Girls Club online and in person because she wanted more information about depression and anxiety. “You don’t learn about any of this in school,” she says. “It’s important to destigmatize the conversation. Everyone online is just supposed to look happy.”

Nearby, on a picnic blanket, Gabrielle Busch, an 18-year-old who just graduated from high school, nodded in agreement. “It’s all about the money,” she says. “They’re promoting this life, and the influencers can set the tone for everyone else. It’s unhealthy. It’s not real.”

By the time the watercolor painting was well underway, nearly two dozen young women (and at least one young man), mostly teens and twentysomethings, had sprawled along the blankets. Mellor had prompted the group to depict something they used to help cope, and then led the group in a discussion. Within minutes, they had colorful images of books, friends, sunshine. “I smoke weed,” said one woman, prompting a ripple of laughter. “A lot.”

Some had described struggling with addiction, either themselves or in their families. At least two had fathers who died in the past year. Many were stressed out about grades, as well as social issues in school or work. “My immigrant parents don’t get it,” said one woman.

“My parents said I was being ‘too theatrical,’” another said.

“You just want to know your shit is valid, you know?”

Many hacks were shared, including one from Jacqueline Randall, a 26-year-old from New Jersey, who spoke about the role water and physical fitness could play in mental health treatment. An impassioned swimmer, Randall fielded questions from attendees about triathlons. “Another reason you should exercise when you’re in your youth is so you can really kick ass when you’re older,” she said.

For Tara Wight, the reception that afternoon was heartening. She had followed Sad Girls on Instagram for most of the year, but this was her first appearance at an art therapy meetup. Wight had struggled with anxiety over the past couple months and said she was looking for ways to talk about and treat it without “having to call a bunch of friends and go on and on about it.”

“People need to be heard,” said Wight, finishing up a watercolor painting and letting it dry in the sun. “What impresses me here is not just their ability to talk, but their ability to listen to each other.”

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