I Am Retiring the "I'm Fine" Version Of Me

I say “I’m fine”
like it’s a reflex.

Like it’s the price of entry
for being functional.

I say it
when I’m snappy
but don’t want to admit
I’m depleted.

Because “I’m fine”
sounds better than,

“I’m running on fumes
and my kindness is on low battery mode.”

I say it
when someone asks how work was
and I don’t have the energy
to translate the whole universe.

Because what do you even say
when the truth is…
it was loud, and fast, and human, and heavy
and also somehow
just another Tuesday.

So I give them the version
that fits in a sentence.

“I’m fine.”

I say it
while answering texts days late
with “sorry, busy.”

Busy.

Like I was out there
having a glamorous little life.

Not staring at the wall
after shift
like my brain needed time
to load back into my body.

And the weird part is…

“I’m fine” used to feel
like strength.

It felt like maturity.
Like I had it together.

Like I could carry my life
in one hand
while opening doors
with the other.

But lately
“I’m fine” has started to feel
like a disappearing act.

Because the more I say it,
the more I realize
I’m not describing my life.

I’m editing it.

I’m smoothing it.
Shrinking it.
Making it palatable.

Making it easier
for everyone else to hold.

And I started wondering…

when did “I’m fine”
become the version of me
I hand out
so nobody worries…

even when I’m the one
who needs to be held
for five seconds longer?

Early January has this energy.
Everyone’s tossing out old clothes,
old habits,
old boyfriends—

like we can just Marie Kondo our way
into a new personality.

But I’m not trying to become
a brand-new person.

I’m just retiring
one particular version of myself.

The one who says “I’m fine”
because it’s easier
than being honest
about how close to empty
I really am.

Not dramatic empty.

Just…

the kind of empty
that makes you feel guilty
for being asked
a simple question.

So this is me,
standing in the doorway of a new year,
realizing I don’t want to keep doing it.

I don’t want to keep saying “fine”
when what I mean is,

“I’m here.
I’m trying.
I’m not okay in a neat way,
but I’m still me.”

And maybe that’s the whole point.

Maybe the bravest thing
I can do this year
is stop performing “fine”—

and start telling the truth
in smaller, safer pieces.

Even if it’s just to myself.

Because I’m not “fine.”

I’m a person.

And I think
I miss being one.

P.S.
Have you ever caught yourself saying “I’m fine”
when you weren’t?

Did you mean “I’m tired”?
Did you mean “I’m tapped out”?
Did you mean “I don’t even know what I mean yet”?

Tell us in the comments — or email stories@pagingapparel.com
if you’d like to be featured (anonymously is totally fine).

— Still Standing in Crocs