“I’m fine” slips out so easily that I often say it before I have even checked in with myself. It is a smooth answer, the kind that keeps things moving. There is no awkward pause, no follow up questions, and no sudden weight placed in someone else’s hands. It is simply a phrase that fits the moment and allows me to maintain control.
How often do I say it just for the sake of saying something? Probably more than I realize. Much of the time, it is not an honest update. Instead, it is social glue. It is a reflex. It is a way to be polite, to be easy, and to avoid taking up space. I say it because it is what people expect, and because it feels safer than opening a door I am not sure I want to walk through.
There are times when “fine” does not mean okay. It means functional. It means I am getting through the day, checking the boxes, and doing what I am supposed to do. It means nothing is actively falling apart, which sounds like a win until I notice how low the bar has become. Sometimes, “fine” is just the absence of visible damage.
If I am being honest, there are moments when it simply means I feel empty.
This is the part that bothers me. I wonder if I have started equating emptiness with being fine. Perhaps I have lived with numbness long enough that it has started to feel normal. It is predictable and safe. It is not happy and it is not sad. It is just flat. Because it is familiar, I label it “fine” and move on, even if part of me knows that is not the same as being okay.
I think “fine” used to mean something more. It used to have warmth in it, a sense that I was actually present in my life rather than just moving through it. Now, it often signifies that I am stable enough to keep going. I can show up, answer messages, and make the right facial expressions. I can laugh at the right moments. I can look okay and I can act okay, but acting okay and being okay are not always the same thing. I do not always know where the line is anymore.
If someone asked me to explain how I really am, I am not sure I would know where to start. My mood shifts and my thoughts do not always line up neatly. Even when I am doing better than before, that does not automatically mean I feel good. It just means I am not at my lowest. It is strange to realize that improvement does not always feel like happiness. Sometimes, it just feels like less pain.
Being generic feels easier. It keeps me from interrupting someone’s day or having to translate my internal world on the spot. It protects me from being vulnerable when I do not know what I need or what I want from the listener. Sometimes, I do not want comfort or advice. I just want the question to be over without having to tell a blatant lie.
However, I wonder what it costs me to use “fine” as a default. The more I say it, the more it feels like my only option. I am shrinking my own experience into something acceptable and leaving the rest unspoken. I am training myself to stay on the surface, even when I am alone.
This makes me wonder who I am allowed to be real with.
- Who can I give the easy answer to without feeling like I am disappearing?
- Who has earned something more authentic?
- Is it about trust, timing, or how much I think someone can hold?
If I stopped defaulting to “fine” and answered honestly, would it be accepted? Or would it be brushed past like small talk anyway? There is a fear that someone might just nod, offer a quick “sorry to hear that,” and move on, leaving me feeling even more alone than if I had kept it simple.
I do not think I owe everyone the full truth. Sometimes “I’m fine” is just practical. Not everyone is asking because they are ready to hear a real answer, and not every moment is the right moment. But there is a difference between privacy and avoidance, and I am not always honest with myself about which one I am choosing. Some days, “fine” is a boundary. Other days, it is a hiding place.
Maybe my version of “fine” is good enough for now. Either way, I am noticing it, and that feels like progress. Perhaps the first step is not having a perfect answer. Maybe it is just asking myself quietly after I speak:
Fine how? Fine like calm, or fine like empty? Fine like I am okay, or fine like I am just used to it? If I can name the difference for myself, I can start choosing something more honest, even if it is only in small ways.
So, am I fine? Or is there something more?