Recently, about a week before I was set to fly out of the country, I had a few back-to-back meetings in the evening. By then, I’d long lost my “luster” for the day and was honestly counting down the hours before I could finally crawl into bed.
The meeting was with several colleagues I hadn’t interacted with in quite some time. One of them asked, “How are you?”
I figured the truth would have put them to sleep. Nothing I was living through was different from what they were experiencing, so instead of honesty, I defaulted to:
“I’m living the dream.”
To that, another friend replied, “You know, that’s the exact same thing X said. So, I’ve got a question for you two… exactly what ‘dream’ is it that you’re living?”
Fortunately, the meeting started before I had to answer.
Later, after the call, that same friend and I exchanged texts. She shared her frustrations with a few work challenges, and I decided to confess:
“My dream is borderline a nightmare.”
I went on to explain a particular challenge I was facing and admitted I had no idea how to navigate it. That confession opened the door to gleaning wisdom from her. Her advice unraveled my puzzle, the “nightmare” dissolved, and life continued, as it always does.
Perhaps your phrase isn’t “living the dream.” Maybe it’s this one: “I’m fine.”
It’s the verbal equivalent of slapping duct tape on a leaking boat and pretending everything’s under control.
We’ve all been there. Someone asks, “How are you?” and instead of admitting that your day feels like a sitcom gone wrong, you smile and say, “I’m fine.” Meanwhile, inside, you’ve got the emotional equivalent of a cat hanging onto a ceiling fan.
It’s like when your car’s check engine light comes on, and instead of heading to the mechanic, you say, “Nah, it’s fine,” and crank up the radio to drown out the noise. That’s “I’m fine.” We think it’s a quick fix, but others can tell something’s not quite right.
The worst part? We say it with such conviction, as if we’re fooling anyone. Imagine if we were as honest as toddlers. They don’t mince words—or weeping. If they aren’t fine, you know it.
What would that look like for us?
“How are you?”
“Well, I spilled coffee on my shirt, stepped on a Lego, and I’m one inconvenience away from a dramatic meltdown. Other than that, I’m good. How about you?”
But no, we stick with “I’m fine,” because heaven forbid we admit we’re human.
Here’s the kicker: saying “I’m fine” doesn’t actually make us fine. It just closes the door to people who might be ready to listen, help, or simply say, “Yeah, me too.”
Being a person of joy doesn’t mean we’re always fine. Joy comes from a deeper place, one that allows us to admit when we’re not okay, trusting that we don’t have to carry our burdens alone. Galatians 6:2 reminds us to “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.” Vulnerability opens the door for others to step in, offer wisdom, and remind us we’re not alone.
So maybe next time, when someone asks how you’re doing, take a breath, ditch the duct tape, and try the truth. Who knows? You might find out they’re also barely holding it together—and isn’t it nice to not be fine together?
In the meantime, let’s agree on this: if you’re gripping your coffee like it’s your last lifeline, your smile looks a little too forced, and your eye is twitching ever so slightly… you’re not fine. And that’s fine.
Prayer:
God of grace, thank You for creating us to walk through life together. Help us to let go of the masks we wear and the duct tape we use to patch our struggles. Give us the courage to admit when we’re not fine, trusting that You work through our honesty to bring healing, wisdom, and connection. Teach us to carry one another’s burdens and remind us that we’re never alone. Amen.