Dear “I’m Fine,” We Both Know You’re Lying.
You slip out so easily now. Like a reflex. A defense. A shield.
Someone asks how I’m doing and before my brain can process the truth, you show up.
“I’m fine.”
Not “I’m tired.”
Not “I feel off.”
Not “I’m lonely and don’t really know how to say it.”
Just you short, polite, and emotionally distant.
You’re the auto-reply that keeps me from unraveling in public.
The safe phrase that tells people, “Please don’t ask questions,”
but also lowkey screams, “Please ask again… gently.”
I use you when I’m too exhausted to explain.
When I don’t want to make things awkward.
When I think no one would really understand anyway.
But honestly? You’re wearing me out.
Because behind every “I’m fine” is a list of things I’ve buried.
Disappointments. Delays. Days I felt invisible.
Moments I wanted to cry but didn’t,
because being vulnerable felt like handing someone a loaded weapon.
I want to start being honest again. Even if it’s just with myself.
To say, “Today was hard,” without guilt.
To admit, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” without shame.
To find comfort in being real, not perfect.
So maybe next time someone asks, I’ll try something new.
Something honest.
Something small but brave.
Maybe I’ll say: “I’m trying.”
Or even better: “Thanks for asking. Do you really want to know?”
Until then, I see you, “I’m fine.”
But I also see through you.
Someone who’s learning to be real again.
