There are two words I’ve said more than anything else in my life.
I’m fine.
I said them when I wasn’t fine.
When I was overwhelmed.
When I felt something rising inside me that I didn’t know how to express.
When I was scared that being honest would only make things worse.
Growing up, honesty didn’t lead to comfort or understanding. It usually led to frustration or anger or being told I was overreacting. So I learned early that sharing how I felt was risky. Saying “I’m fine” was safer than telling the truth.
It wasn’t really an answer. It was a shield.
There is a scene from Friends that hits differently now that I’m older. It is the one where Ross finds out Joey and Rachel are dating and he keeps squeaking, “I’m fine” in that shaky, high-pitched voice. He is smiling way too hard, burning fajitas, pretending everything is normal while he is seconds away from losing it.
On TV it is funny.
In real life, that was me.
Not once in a while. Almost every day.
Growing up, my house felt like a place where things could unravel without warning. A normal moment could turn into yelling or tension over something tiny. A wet bar of soap. Taking too long in the shower. Using the can opener on the counter. Acting like a kid. Anything could set off a storm.
And when you live like that, you learn fast.
You learn to stay quiet.
You learn not to show fear.
You learn not to have feelings that take up space.
So “I’m fine” became my script. Not something I said out loud. Something I said in my head every time my stomach dropped or the mood suddenly shifted.
I would go to my room, which was the only place that felt even a little safe, and sit there whispering it to myself.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
Trying to convince myself I wasn’t scared.
Trying to keep myself small.
Trying not to make anything worse.
I didn’t have the freedom to feel anything real, so I learned to numb it instead. I learned to steady my breathing and keep my voice calm and act like nothing was wrong. That became my identity. A kid who handled everything. A kid who never reacted. A kid who was always, always “fine.”
Even as I got older, the script stayed with me. I still caught myself using it in moments that felt tense or uncertain. It didn’t matter that I was no longer in that house. My body still remembered. My nervous system still braced for things to unravel. I still defaulted to that same smallness. That same quiet. That same lie.
And the more I said “I’m fine,” the more it became a story I told about myself.
A story that made me appear strong.
A story that made me seem easygoing.
A story that hid how much I was holding inside.
Therapy changed that for me. Not all at once, but slowly. It taught me to pause before answering. To check in with myself instead of jumping straight to the old script. To actually notice what I was feeling.
And for the first time, I learned to replace “I’m fine” with the truth.
Sometimes the truth is “I’m tired.”
Sometimes it is “I’m overwhelmed.”
Sometimes it is “I need a minute.”
And sometimes it is “I’m not okay.”
Those words used to feel impossible.
Now they feel like freedom.
“I’m fine” used to protect me.
Now it only keeps me small.
And I don’t need to be small anymore.
Next time on Tattooed Truths: The Apology That Never Came