Clinically Speaking, I’m Fine

It was 1 a.m. on Saturday night, and my brain refused to shut off.
So there I was — curled up on the couch, watching Sex and the City reruns like it was 2004 again.

Back in high school, that show was everything. The city, the shoes, the friendships — it all looked so bold and effortless. I used to think that’s what being an adult must feel like — having it all figured out, sipping cosmos while the rest of the world spun.

But sitting there years later, I saw it differently. The glamour I once admired now looked like exhaustion in heels. The witty banter sounded a lot like overcompensation. What once seemed like freedom now looked more like everyone pretending they were fine.

The story hadn’t changed. I had.
Funny how that works — you can watch the same thing, live through the same moment, and walk away with a completely different truth depending on where you are in life.

Not long ago, that same theme showed up in a one-on-one with a clinician.
She sat across from me, coffee in hand, smiling just enough to look okay.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

“I’m fine.”

If you’ve spent enough time in healthcare, you know that I’m fine is rarely fine.
It’s polite. It’s practiced. It’s protective.

Something in her tone made me pause — the kind of pause you learn from years of reading people when words don’t tell the whole story.

So I asked again, a little softer this time:

“Are you really fine?”

That’s when the truth came out — quietly, not dramatically. The exhaustion. The endless admissions. The invisible weight of trying to be everything to everyone.

And in that moment, I saw myself.

Because if I’m being honest — I am that “I’m fine” person, too.

For most of my life, “I’m fine” was my default setting. My armor.
It was the safe response when I didn’t have the space or strength to unpack what I was really feeling. It let me look composed, dependable, and unshakable — all the things I thought a strong leader was supposed to be.

But here’s what I’ve learned:
Strength isn’t always about holding it together.

Sometimes, it’s about having the courage to admit that you can’t.

“I’m fine” might keep you functioning, but it doesn’t get you far when your world feels like it’s coming apart. It doesn’t invite support, and it doesn’t build connection. Sometimes things just… suck. And it’s okay to say that out loud.

Because pretending you’re fine doesn’t make the hard things any easier — it just makes you lonely while you face them.

In healthcare, we speak in tones and subtleties. You start to recognize the language of quiet fatigue, the weight behind a soft “it’s okay.” You learn to listen beyond words — both to your team and to yourself.

Perception plays a powerful role here. We’re conditioned to see calm as strong and emotion as weak, but that’s backwards. True strength lives in honesty — in the ability to drop the mask long enough to let someone in.

So maybe the lesson is the same one Sex and the City was quietly teaching all along: what looks “together” from a distance is often just someone doing their best to hold it together. The glamour fades, but the humanity underneath — that’s what’s real.

And honestly? That’s where the beauty is.

So the next time you hear “I’m fine” — whether it’s from a coworker, a loved one, or your own reflection — pause. Ask again. Look closer.

Because sometimes, the quietest words carry the loudest truth.

And sometimes, “I’m not fine” is where the real healing begins.