Two words. Eight letters. Sit with this small little sentence for a second. Have you said this before? Who are we kidding, of course you have, you have said it more times than you can count. As sure as the day is long, I have used this lie, more times than I care to admit. But it is the biggest lie most people tell on a daily basis, and we tell it so often, with such convincing delivery, that we've actually started to believe it ourselves.
I'm fine, when the coffee goes cold because I was too busy making everyone else's morning to drink my own. I'm fine, when someone adds one more thing to a list that was already longer than my arm, and I smile and say sure, no problem, because somewhere between childhood and now, no became a word that belonged to everyone else.
I'm fine. The worst part? Nobody questions it. Not because they don't care. Because I've been so bloody good at fine for so long that fine is all anyone knows how to expect from me. I'm fine when someone asks me how I'm doing and before the question has even finished landing I've already answered it. Not because I'm okay. Because the alternative requires an explanation I don't have the crayons or the energy to give, to someone who probably doesn't have the capacity to hold it, in a world that has made it very clear that falling apart is an inconvenience. I'm fine is easier. I'm fine is faster. I'm fine keeps the peace, keeps the schedule, keeps everyone comfortable while I quietly add one more thing to the pile I've been carrying so long I've forgotten what it felt like to put it down.
Here's what I've figured out about I'm fine though. It's not one thing. It's never one thing. It's a whole conversation happening underneath the surface that nobody gets to hear. Sometimes I'm fine means I'm so far from fine that fine feels like a foreign country I visited once a long time ago and can no longer find on a map. Sometimes it means I know exactly what's wrong and I've decided you're not the person I'm going to tell. Sometimes — and this is the one that costs the most — it means I've been saying yes for so long, loading more onto an already impossible pile because somewhere along the way I got very good at capable, and capable became the expectation, and the expectation became the cage, and now I'm standing inside it saying I'm fine because I built this bloody thing myself and I'll be damned if I'm going to admit that.
Nobody made me say yes every time. Nobody forced the smile or the sure, no problem or the I'll handle it. I did that. With my own two hands and my very best intentions and a deeply held belief that this was just what was required of me. And maybe it was. Maybe the pressure was real — from every direction, every relationship, every coffee morning where someone's performance of perfect made my own imperfection feel like failure. Maybe I learned I'm fine from watching other women say it and survive. Maybe I said it so many times it stopped feeling like a lie and started feeling like armor.
But armor is heavy. And I was not fine. I hadn't been fine for a while. And if I'm being completely honest — because, seriously, the alternative just no longer suits me. Something had to give and I'll be damned if I gave one more inch. So I stopped. Not dramatically. Not with a speech or a breakdown or a moment anyone else would have noticed. Just quietly, in the way that real things change — I stopped loading more onto the pile. I stopped saying yes when I meant no. I stopped performing fine for an audience that had never once stopped to ask what was actually going on behind it. And you know what happened? Nothing. Nothing collapsed. Nobody fell apart. The world kept turning without my I'm fine holding it up. Turns out the pile was optional. The yes was optional. The armor was optional. The only thing that was never optional was me. And she'd been waiting a long time to be allowed back in the room.
Roux
0 comments