When “I’m fine” became a lie

It starts in the checkout line. A casual, "How are you?" from the cashier. "I'm fine, thanks. You?"

It’s tossed out while scrolling through your phone, a reflexive noise to fill the silence. But then, it happens elsewhere. It becomes the default. The answer to your partner over dinner. The text you send to your mom. The cheerful email to your colleague.

“I’m fine.”

Two words, so light on the tongue, yet so heavy in the soul.

I don't remember the exact day "I'm fine" became a lie. It wasn't a conscious decision. It was a slow, quiet shift—like a fog rolling in and deciding to stay. It was the realization that the truth was too complex, too messy, too much.

The truth was a tangled ball of yarn inside my chest: a knot of anxiety, a thread of exhaustion, a strand of "I-have-no-idea-what-I'm-doing," all colored with a deep, aching sadness for no reason at all.

So, "I'm fine" became the drawer I shoved that tangled mess into. I’d smile, close the drawer, and hope the latch held.

We wear "I'm fine" like armor. We think it protects us from judgment, from pity, from being a burden. But the terrible, quiet truth is that the armor becomes the cage. The lie we tell others becomes the lie we start to live.

I remember a specific Tuesday. The sun was shining, I’d had a productive morning, and on paper, everything was… fine. A friend called. "Hey! How are you?"

And out it came, bright and automatic: "I'm good! Just busy, you know. How are you?"

I listened to her talk about her week, all the while screaming inside my own head. The scream wasn't words. It was a static hum of I am not fine. I am so tired. I feel like I'm dissolving.

In that moment, I learned a new, heartbreaking definition of loneliness: being surrounded by people who care, while you're silently drowning in plain sight.

We do it because we’re scared. Scared that if we let one crack show, the whole dam will break. That we’ll crumble into a million pieces and won't know how to put ourselves back together. That our "ugly" will be too much for someone else to hold.

But here’s the secret I’m slowly, gently learning:

The most courageous sentence in the world is often a quiet, "You know, I'm not actually okay."

It doesn't have to be a dramatic confession. It can be a whisper. A text message. A tear that you don't immediately wipe away.

It’s the first, fragile thread you throw out of your cage, hoping someone on the other side will take it and gently help you untangle the rest.

So, if you’re reading this and that phrase, "I'm fine," has been feeling like a lie on your lips, I see you. I am you.

Your "not fine" is not a failure. It is a feeling. And feelings are not facts; they are visitors, however unwelcome. They deserve to be acknowledged, not imprisoned behind a smile.

Let's make a pact. Let's be a little less fine. Let's answer "How are you?" with "Today is a struggle," or "Hanging in there," or even a simple, "I've been better."

Let's be the friend who asks twice. The one who looks past the "I'm fine" and sees the flicker of something else in someone's eyes.

Let's start untangling the mess, one honest, fragile word at a time. Because the world doesn't need more "fine" people. It needs more real ones.