Stop Asking “How Are You?” If You Don’t Want the Truth

The Last Word My Father Ever Said to Me

One of the last things my father ever said to me before he took his own life was this:
“I’m fine.”

Not emotional. Not desperate. Not raw. Just… fine.

And that’s what made it so terrifying. Because we’ve all said it. We’ve all heard it. We’ve all let it slide.

It’s the default setting. The socially accepted script. The answer you’re supposed to give when you don’t want to be seen, when the truth feels like too much, when you’re holding it together by a thread but can’t afford to let it show.

But here’s the truth: he wasn’t fine. And neither are most people who say they are.

His marriage had ended. His business had collapsed. His finances were gone. His mother had taken her own life, and he was staring down that same edge himself.

He was adrift at midlife—ashamed, isolated, exhausted—and still, he gave the answer he thought he was supposed to give. The one that keeps things safe. The one that keeps people from asking more. The one that protects everyone from the discomfort of the truth.

“I’m fine.”

After that, he was gone. And that word—fine—was the lie that kept him from the truth that might have saved him.

The Man at the Window
Not long ago, I was standing in line at Starbucks.

There was a man sitting alone by the window, maybe mid-40s, dressed like he was heading to work, holding a paper cup like a lifeline. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t scrolling. He was just staring out the glass, eyes red, jaw clenched, soul heavy.

“You okay?” I asked, gently.

He flinched a little, startled, then looked up with the same answer I’ve heard a thousand times. “I’m fine,” he said.

And I just stood there for a beat, looked at him, and said, “That’s not what your tears are saying.”

Something shifted.

We ended up talking. Quietly. Honestly. About a divorce. A job loss. Regret. Loneliness. Shame.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry (much). He didn’t collapse in public. But he said it.

He said it without saying it.

Fuck fine.

Not out loud—but in the way he exhaled. In the way he told the truth. In the way he stopped pretending.

“I’m Fine” Is a Lie We’ve All Agreed to
Let’s stop calling “I’m fine” a response. It’s not a feeling. It’s not an answer. It’s a mask. A performance. A polite way of saying, I don’t feel safe to be real here.

But what if we made it safe?

What if we stopped saying we were fine when we’re not? What if we stopped asking “How are you?” like it’s nothing? What if we stopped accepting “I’m fine” like it’s everything?

Fine is flatline. Fine is spiritual shutdown. Fine is a half-truth that becomes a whole cage.

You don’t have to be good. You don’t have to be okay. You don’t have to be fixed, healed, whole, or even functioning.

But you do have to be real.

Say you’re angry. Say you’re exhausted. Say you’re broken. Say you’re unsure how you feel at all.

Just don’t say fine if you’re not.

What That Man Really Needed
That man at Starbucks didn’t need a therapist. He didn’t need a lecture. He didn’t need a checklist.

He needed someone to look him in the eye, ask again, and wait. He needed permission to stop performing. To be a human being with tears in his eyes and no script to follow.

That’s all it took. A pause. A moment. A little courage.

That’s how we break the lie of fine. One truth at a time.

The World Doesn’t Need More Polite Liars
It needs brave souls. It needs people who are tired of the show and ready to speak what’s real.

We’re not here to coast through life giving answers that protect everyone else from the discomfort of our humanity.

We’re here to speak from the gut. To be seen. To see each other.

You don’t have to be fine. You don’t have to say you’re fine. And you don’t have to accept it when someone else does either.

This Is Where It Starts
So the next time someone asks how you are—
Pause.
Take a breath.
And tell the truth.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it’s awkward.
Even if it makes the room a little quieter.

And when someone says “I’m fine” to you—
Ask again.
Look closer.
Listen deeper.

Because fine is the lie we’ve agreed to. And it’s time to break that agreement wide open.

It’s time to ask that question in a way that invites raw, real, and really messy responses.
It’s time to answer that question with a resounding:
Fuck fine.