Someone asks how you’re doing. You pause for a moment, almost imperceptibly, and then say, “I’m fine.” You might even smile. You might even be fine—in a functional, productive, responsible kind of way.
​
But inside? Inside there’s a quiet storm. A flicker of loneliness. A tangle of unprocessed feelings you’re not even sure you’re allowed to feel, let alone speak aloud.

I know this place well. The subtle dissonance between what’s happening inside and what I present on the outside. The part of me that grew up learning to be composed, resilient, and insightful—while hiding the messier parts underneath. Not because I’m being fake. But because I’ve learned, like so many of us, that not everyone can hold the parts of us that aren’t “fine.”

Psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott called this the false self—the version of ourselves we put forward in order to stay safe, accepted, or in control. It’s not a lie exactly. It’s just… incomplete. It’s a survival strategy that says: Don’t need too much. Don’t break the rules. Don’t risk being a burden.

But the cost? You begin to disappear from your own life.

Over time, you may notice a low-level restlessness. A kind of spiritual or emotional anemia. You keep showing up for others, doing what you’re supposed to do, being who you’re supposed to be—but something in you is growing quietly angry, hungry, or sad.

Therapy often begins at this exact point—when the old strategies stop working, or when the emotional void becomes too painful to ignore. We talk. We explore. And slowly, you learn to listen to the parts of you that have been whispering under the surface.

Here’s what I’ve learned: “I’m fine” is sometimes code for “I’ve left the building.” It means I’ve gone into self-sufficiency mode. I’ve tucked my heart behind a smile. I’ve chosen safety over realness.

But realness is where the healing happens.

So I’ll ask you now, as I ask myself (often):

What part of you goes quiet when you say, “I’m fine”?

And what would happen if you let it speak?

​