When your partner frustrates you or your mum is on your last nerve, it’s natural to call a friend or talk about your feelings at the next wine night. But not all emotional unloading is created equal.

“Although they seem similar on the surface, venting and complaining are actually distinct phenomena that lead to different outcomes for your mental health,” Natalie Moore, a licensed marriage and family therapist, told HuffPost.

So what exactly is the difference? And when does talking to friends about your feelings about a person or situation go from a healthy outlet to an unproductive cycle of negativity?

Below, Moore and other relationship experts break it down.

“I think of venting as letting off steam about the annoying habits or behaviours that are inevitable in a relationship,” said Tracy Ross, a licensed clinical social worker specialising in couples and family therapy. “And more often than not it’s helpful to have a friend who listens, validates and just understands why you feel the way you do – without judgment.”

Having a little vent session with a close friend can be a healthy way to engage with something that’s bothering you.

“Venting typically involves expressing emotions and frustrations in a way that seeks understanding or relief,” said relationship therapist Joy Berkheimer. “It allows for an honest exploration of feelings and can facilitate personal insight or clarity when approached constructively. Essentially, venting can be a form of processing, providing a necessary outlet for emotional burdens.”

It feels good to get something off your chest and discuss how it’s been affecting you.

“Venting often sounds like, ‘I just need to talk this through – I had a moment, and I need someone to hear me out,’” said Sanah Kotadia, a licensed professional counsellor with Balanced Minds Therapy. “There’s usually emotion, but also a sense of release or clarity afterward.”

Getting to hear someone else’s perspective can also help you see the situation more clearly.

“Honestly, sometimes we need to talk to our friends when we’re confused, frustrated, or even just want someone to say, ‘Yeah, that would drive me nuts too,’” said April Davis, the founder of Luma Luxury Matchmaking. “It can be a way to process what you’re feeling in a safe, supportive space.”

A little venting can give you the chance to calm down and explore why you’re feeling strongly so that you can address the issue directly with the other person later with a cooler head.

“Venting can be a healthy outlet if it’s done intentionally, with self-awareness,” said dating coach Sabrina Zohar. “It’s about releasing tension, exploring feelings, and often includes self-reflection. It sounds like, ‘I’m overwhelmed and need to talk this through so I can make sense of it.’”

Maybe you had an argument with your partner over something small, like not getting to go to the beach for a weekend because you have to go visit your in-laws.

“Sometimes, all we need is the opportunity to let off steam and we’re ready to let the situation go,” Moore said. “Other times, the venting allows us to transition into problem-solving mode. Venting primarily indicates that there is an emotional release that needs to occur to avoid a blowup, much like relieving pressure on a pressure cooker so it doesn’t explode.”

“Complaining often carries a more negative connotation,” Berkheimer said. “It tends to focus on grievances without seeking resolution or understanding. Complaining may involve repetitive criticism that doesn’t foster growth, and it can lead to a cycle of negativity that detracts from the relationship.”

There’s a greater focus on blame in complaining, which has a critical edge to it.

“It’s more about being right than being real,” Zohar said. “It sounds like, ‘Can you believe they did this again?’ and usually doesn’t leave room for personal accountability or change.”

Rather than exploring and shifting your own thinking on the subject, you tend to circle the same frustration over and over.

“When someone engages in chronic complaining, they aren’t just releasing tension from the system – they’re actually subtly communicating that they aren’t ready to make the necessary changes to solve the problem,” Moore said.

“For example, someone who isn’t ready to face conflict head-on might complain to their friends about their partner as a way of expressing frustration without having to face their own fears.”

Ultimately, complaining feels like an attack rather than a way to blow off steam. There might even be a sense that you’re putting the weight of these issues on your loved ones and expecting them to solve the problem.

“Complaining goes more to the character of the person and can be detrimental,” Ross said. “It can be disloyal depending on the content and the intent behind sharing. It may backfire – if you have serious complaints about your partner that you want to address, the person to do that with is your partner, not your friends.”

Understanding the difference between venting and complaining can help people nurture healthier relationships.

“While both can emerge from a place of frustration, the intention behind venting is generally to seek support and empathy, whereas complaining often lacks this constructive purpose,” Berkhaimer said.

“Venting is more of an emotional release and desire to fix the issue, whereas complaining is the same story, over and over, with no real intention to fix your relationship,” Davis echoed.

Emotional expression should ideally have a positive long-term impact on your personal well-being and your connections with others.

“One way to tell the difference is by noticing how you feel afterward – do you feel clearer and more grounded, or more stuck and frustrated?” Kotadia noted.

Experts see more nuance in venting, whereas complaining often flattens complex situations into black-and-white thinking.

“One is a step toward repair. The other is a step toward emotional gridlock,” Zohar said. “And when complaining becomes habitual, it reinforces powerlessness – it makes you the victim of a relationship you’re not taking ownership in.”

“Venting is often a healthy, normal, outlet for letting off steam that is inevitable in a relationship,” Ross said. “Venting about everyday annoyances like domestic chores, messiness or being late is normal and often helpful. There are things we just have to accept about our partners, yet they still annoy us and make us angry.”

Releasing the tension by talking to friends can feel validating, particularly if they sometimes get annoyed with their partner over similar things. By venting to a group, you also give everyone else permission to do the same.

“In groups of people, it’s common for themes to emerge and for friends to feel less alone in their frustrations,” Moore said. “If the group venting sessions lead you feeling seen, heard and supported, then it’s an overall positive experience.”

You might want to reevaluate your participation in the group venting sessions if the experience leaves you feeling demoralised or hopeless, however. The goal is to process your emotions and gain perspective in a positive way.

“Ideally, venting should be approached with intention,” Berkheimer said. “It’s beneficial when it fosters constructive discussions and deeper understanding, not just about our partner, but about our own needs and patterns. When we share in a way that seeks support and growth rather than merely complaining, it can strengthen our relationships with both our partners and our friends.”

Experts emphasise that venting about someone is not inherently “good” or “bad”. Life and relationships are complex and nuanced.

“When determining whether your behavior is healthy or not, look at the big picture,” Moore said. She recommended asking yourself questions: “Am I overall fulfilled in my relationship?” “Do I feel better after venting to my friends?” “Am I willing to look at my part in problems and address them with my partner head-on most of the time?”

If the answer to all three of these questions is yes, then you probably don’t need to worry. But maybe you’ll discover these vent sessions are your only coping mechanism and just keep you stuck in repetitive negativity.

“We can easily fall into this cycle of rehashing the same issues over and over because we aren’t addressing the root of the problem,” Davis said. “That might mean you need to have difficult conversations with your partner or consider couples counseling.”

Therapy provides a safe, supportive environment to discuss your frustrations with a trained professional, and with couples or family counseling, you and the other person can go into it with the shared goal of improving the health of your relationship.

“Repeated venting can sometimes be a sign that you don’t feel equipped to bring certain things up with your partner, or that you don’t believe anything will change,” Kotadia said. “That’s when it might be worth exploring those patterns more intentionally – either through self-reflection or with support from a therapist.”

She advised looking inward and examining what you’re seeking when you vent. Is it just a little support and perspective? Or are you feeling utterly unheard, underappreciated and overwhelmed in your relationship? Maybe you’re using these conversations as an avoidance technique.

“Venting should be a release valve, not a lifestyle,” Zohar said. “If you’re constantly bringing your relationship to the group chat instead of the person you’re dating, something deeper is going on – and it’s not just about them.”

Think about the tone and level of emotion you bring to these conversations. Look for negative patterns in your communication and whether you feel comfortable having an honest, open conversation with your partner.

“There is a difference between sharing, talking it through and figuring out what you want to do about it – and revealing serious issues and disturbing behaviours that are red flags,” Ross said. “If you have serious doubts or concerns about your relationship, be clear before you start the conversation, know whether you are venting so that you can then put your head in the sand and ignore the flags, or because you aren’t sure what to do and need a friend to talk it through.”

That’s why it’s important to consider your audience, the content of what you’re discussing and your priorities. Perhaps you know you need to accept your partner will never be as neat as you are, but you cope by occasionally complaining to a trusted friend. Or maybe you’re diving into serious problems that go into a partner’s character or the viability of your relationship.

“Venting can put friends in an awkward situation,” Ross noted. “In the heat of the moment, you may be very upset about an argument, and if that’s when you complain to your friend, it can come across as more serious than it actually is.”

Understand that what you say may well change your friend’s opinion of your partner and lead them to question your choice to stay in the relationship. Consider how you would feel if your friend shared something similar about their partner.

“Remember, venting is only one person’s side of the story and may be taken out of context,” Ross added. “The thing to ask yourself is, ‘If my partner knew I was sharing this, how would they feel?’ While they may not love it in any instance, there is a difference between things you can laugh off and things that feel like a breach of loyalty and confidence.”

Basically, you should give the other person involved a chance to work on big issues directly with you before you go off about them with your friends.

“Sometimes venting is a symptom of emotional self-abandonment,” Zohar said. “You’re not a bad partner for needing support, but if you’re outsourcing all your emotional expression to friends, you’re not in a full relationship with the person you’re dating. You’re managing perception, not building connection.”

That’s why it’s worth getting curious – without judgment – about why you aren’t saying these things to the other person. Do you feel emotionally safe? Are you worried that bringing it up would cause insurmountable conflict or rejection?

“Many people aren’t venting to gain clarity – they’re avoiding direct conflict,” Zohar said. “They’re using their friends to emotionally regulate, validate their side, or make sense of dynamics that feel unsafe to bring up in the relationship. If your friends know more about your emotional needs or resentments than your partner does, that’s not communication – that’s emotional outsourcing.”

I never imagined that finding love in my 40s would lead me to reality television. Yet there I was, staring at an Instagram DM from a friend that read: “This show sounds perfect for you 👀.” She’d tagged me in a casting call for Kings Court, a new show set to premiere on Bravo TV and Peacock.

My first instinct was to laugh. I’m a doctor. I’m used to saving lives, not competing for declarations of love on prime-time television.

But after years of long hospital shifts, well-meaning advice from friends and dating apps that felt more like an obstacle course than a love story, I had to face a quieter truth: success hadn’t made dating easier. It had made it lonelier. So, I didn’t delete the message. I sat with it. And eventually, I clicked on the link.

Dating in my 40s as a successful Black woman isn’t what people might imagine. From the outside, it looks like options. On the inside, it often feels like silence.

Between 12-hour workdays, raising my son, and building a life I’m deeply proud of, my time and energy were stretched thin. But what surprised me wasn’t just the lack of time, it was how my success seemed to narrow the dating pool.

As a girl, I grew up with the pressure to perform. This isn’t unique to me – it’s the reality for many Black and brown girls. I understood early that who I was didn’t just reflect on me, it reflected on my household, my community and the generations who came before me.

Excellence wasn’t optional; it was expected. And beneath that expectation, an unspoken question took root: if I have to be twice as good to be seen, what will it take to be chosen?

I grew up watching so many of my aunties, elders and mother figures navigate life on their own – strong, brilliant, resilient, unchosen. If no one was choosing these extraordinary women, what did that mean for me? Even though I was raised to believe that no matter what adversity I faced, God loved me and I was already chosen, I still internalised another message: I had to earn love and acceptance.

I wasn’t searching for someone to complete me. I wanted someone who could meet me. Someone who could stand beside me without needing me to shrink. Someone who understood that being loved shouldn’t require diminishing who you are to fit someone else’s comfort.

So, when I walked onto that reality show set for the first time, I was nervous in a way that surprised me. This was all new: being on camera, sharing myself in an intimate way while millions might eventually watch. My faith in God and the confidence I have in my unique story and all I bring to the table grounded me.

I gravitated toward kindness – the production team was incredibly supportive, and several of the women in the cast were true “girls’ girls”. We had so much fun behind and in front of the camera, cheering one another on and steering clear of drama.

As the cameras rolled, I found myself … just being me. I didn’t feel I had anything to hide, but I did have something to protect: my heart and my sense of worth. I allowed my emotions to unfold in real time.

As I got to know my love interest, there were moments that frustrated and confused me, and viewers saw that on-screen. There were also ooey-gooey moments, deep conversations about our lives, and dreaming out loud about what a future together might look like.

All the ups and downs I’ve experienced over years of dating were compressed into a very intense three-week journey. When you’re living with someone 24/7, you get to learn important aspects of who they are quickly. I was blown away by how much I loved being on camera – not for the attention, but for the rush of creativity. The storytelling, the reflection, the awareness of watching your own life from a new angle – all of it lit something in me. I left the show with a genuine interest in the film world that excites me to this day.

I entered Kings Court in the final round of introductions of bachelorettes as my love interest’s “perfect match,” according to a professional matchmaker. The stakes felt high. But honestly, once I felt a connection forming, everyone else faded into the background. I wasn’t thinking about competition. I believed that if something was meant to be, we would leave together.

There were also surprises in the process that weren’t particularly romantic or exhilarating. It was hard living in a house with 15 other women and three bachelors. We were all established adults, used to our own space and rhythms. Sharing bathrooms, squeezing in sleep, getting dressed up for dates with dozens of eyes and ears nearby – it was a lot. But I leaned into the absurdity. When in life would I get to do something like this again?

Something shifted in me as filming went on: I realised I had nothing to lose by being honest. If I was truthful and vulnerable, my potential match would see me, and if he chose me, it would be with eyes wide open. And if he didn’t, that told its own story.

I let him see my world: my life as a single mum, the intensity of my career in medicine, the pain and healing that followed intimate partner violence. I wasn’t afraid to have fun or let my guard down either. I showed up more fully than I had before in my dating life, and that alone made the experience worthwhile.

There was one moment that especially stands out for me, when he said I seemed “too polished,” like he wasn’t seeing the real me. I told him gently but firmly, “This is me.” Reality TV or not, I knew I didn’t need to perform to be chosen. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. But the right person will love my aroma, temperature and flavour without trying to add anything to or take anything away from me.

Before the show, I mostly rolled my eyes at reality dating series. But I’m also a hopeless romantic! I’m a sucker for the kind of stories that leave you warm inside, like Lauren and Cameron on Love Is Blind Season 1. Their vulnerability and willingness to fall for someone without playing by the conventional rules truly resonated with me. I wanted a love narrative that freed me from expectations too.

Prior to this process, I was both skeptical and curious. But I’m in a season of life where I’m willing to try new things, stretch myself and take risks. My career caring for children with serious illness has taught me that life is short. I don’t want to miss anything that’s for me, even if it comes in an unusual package.

The reality dating show experience wasn’t perfect. There were catty dynamics with some women that don’t align with how I show up in friendships. I didn’t let those interactions define my experience; they were growth moments. I let that energy roll off me like water off a duck’s back. Overall, being on the show exceeded every expectation. I had fun. I was proud of how I carried myself and how I was portrayed. I walked away with clarity about what I need and deserve in partnership. I grew in self-esteem, in my ability to prioritise my heart’s desires amidst a demanding life, and in my sense of worthiness in romantic love.

My friends and family were so excited for me. They’ve seen the highs and lows of my dating journey and want me to win. Those who are fans of reality TV warned me about the public commentary, but nothing could have prepared me for that. What I have learned on the other side of it all is simple: not everyone will like you, and people will always create their own narratives. Let them talk. None of that determines who you are or what you will achieve. I’m grateful for the thicker skin I’ve developed as a result and the steadier sense of self.

And, yes, I formed a powerful love connection that was meant to be at the time. I let myself be seen, and someone saw me. And sometimes, that alone is enough to change you.

I didn’t walk away with a fairytale ending, I left with something more honest – a reminder that love at this stage of life isn’t about fixing what’s missing. It’s about being fully seen, even when the world believes it already knows who you are.

For much of my life, I waited to be chosen. I carried that quiet ache – the one passed down through generations of women who carried everything except the certainty of romantic partnership. But somewhere along this journey, I realised something radical: I can choose myself.

I’ve spent years caring for others, building a career, and showing up strong. Saying yes to dating on a reality show was my way of choosing softness too. And whether love finds me on national television or over a quiet cup of coffee, I now know it will find me exactly as I am – whole, grounded and chosen by me first.

Khaliah Johnson, MD, was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, and currently resides in Atlanta, Georgia. She is a practicing paediatric palliative care physician and health care advocate who leverages her skills in medical education, writing, and media to promote health equity. Khaliah is the mother to an incredible 10-year-old boy and two Frenchie puppies. In her downtime, she is an avid aerial artist, lover of food and wine, and a travel adventurer.

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My grandmother never stepped foot in a swimming pool. The closest she ever came was the afternoon I held my phone in front of her face, tilting the tiny glowing screen so she could see her great-granddaughters slicing through bright blue water at a swim meet. They were still little then, just beginning to race. Her eyes were tired but sharp.

“Shana,” she said, squinting at the screen, “what is that girl doing in that water?!” There was real fear in her voice; the kind that doesn’t come from ignorance, but from history.

“She’s racing, Grandma,” I told her. “That’s Zuri. Don’t worry – she’s safe.”

She leaned closer, watching those small arms churn. “Do they like swimming?”

She nodded slowly, and looked on. “I never did learn to swim, baby. Never even been in a pool.” I squeezed her hand. “I know. But we aim to change all that with Zuri and Amara.”

What I didn’t say was that this wasn’t just about safety. It was about rewriting something.

My grandmother never learned to swim, but my mother did. In her childhood, sparkling public pools were not invitations. They were exclusions.

During segregation, Black families had been barred from entry. When desegregation came, many towns chose to close pools rather than integrate them. Access to water – something so innocent and basic – became a quiet marker of who belonged.

The effects are still visible today. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Black Americans drown at rates about 1.5 times higher than white Americans, and the disparity is especially stark for children. In swimming pools, Black children ages 10–14 drown at rates 7.6 times higher than white children. Public health researchers have linked these disparities in part to generations of unequal access to pools and swim instruction.

But in the late ’70s, my mama stepped into the water anyway. Two months after she gave birth to me – the first of her seven children – she signed up for swim lessons. If she learned, her children would not inherit fear as instinct.

When we were little, she made sure every one of us took lessons. We grew up in Charleston, where sometimes it feels like there is more water than land. Rivers stretch wide. Marshes wind through neighbourhoods. The ocean is never far. Every summer, we went to W.L. Stephens pool. The smell of chlorine. The echo of whistles. The sting of sun on wet shoulders.

Each year, we grew stronger. My brother and I kept up our lessons into high school – we were not racers, but continued swim education for safety: yardage, endurance, treading water until our legs shook. In our family, swimming was non-negotiable.

But “basic” has not always meant “accessible”. Many of our Black and brown friends didn’t take lessons. They came to the pool, yes, but they stayed close to the sides, where the waves slipped gently into the gutters and onto the deck. My siblings and I could go much farther out – not recklessly, but confidently. The water was our friend, not a stranger.

Years later, I found myself sitting in the bleachers at that very same pool – W.L. Stephens – but this time as a mother. Zuri was seven. It was her first swim meet. She stepped up for the 25-yard freestyle – tiny, serious, goggles slightly crooked. The buzzer sounded. She dove. She touched the wall first.

Her coach ran up to me, wide-eyed: “Looks like her time was one of the fastest in the state for her age group.”

One of the fastest in the state. In the same pool where I learned to tread water. In the same water my mother insisted we master. I felt the past and future colliding in chlorinated air.

What I did not expect was that Zuri would fall in love with racing. At eight, she swam anchor at the 8 & Under State Championships. Her team was seeded low. The role of anchor, or the last team member to swim in a relay, is often filled by the fastest or most experienced swimmer. She dove and touched first. The tiny swimmers took first in the state.

Years later, at her final Age Group State Championship, she stood on the blocks again as anchor. Same pool, but she was older, stronger. The natatorium hummed. The starter beeped. She dove with quiet poise and remarkable strength. I didn’t breathe. When she touched the wall, the scoreboard flashed: 24.91.

Under 25. On a relay. At 14 years old.

Three other girls had already poured everything into that water before she dove in. Four bodies. One finish. They broke their team record and placed third in the state – less than a second from first.

I covered my mouth before I realised I was crying. It was not just her time. It was the inheritance, interrupted.

There were not many girls who looked like her in that heat. USA Swimming reports roughly 2% of its membership is Black. Two percent. Better than my grandmother’s day. Better than my mother’s. Still small enough to notice.

I do not let Zuri carry that weight. From me, she gets steadiness. Her dream is hers.

My grandmother passed away in March 2024. She never stepped into a pool. But she empowered the next three generations to step forward anyway.

In just four generations, a grandmother was barred from entry, a mother stepped in anyway and a daughter made swimming non-negotiable. Now a great-granddaughter anchors relays and breaks swimming records with her teammates. Four generations of unconditional love. Lifetimes of growth and development.

I miss my grandmother. But she saw the beginning of this change, and that matters more than I can fully explain. Water once represented exclusion. Now, in our family, it represents possibility. And that feels like victory.

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