Why "it's okay" is the most dangerous and destructive answer about your life

You know, there's a phrase we say on autopilot. Like an old, worn-out protective spell. "How are you? How's life in general?" we're asked. And we, almost without thinking, toss out on the go: "Everything's fine." More often than not, it's a blatant lie. And perhaps the most destructive lie we feed ourselves day in and day out.

A Gray Canvas Instead of a Painting

Fine is not good. And certainly not bad. It sounds as bland and neutral as possible. A kind of gray canvas that the eye doesn't catch at all. An invisible word. It doesn't cause anxiety in your interlocutor, doesn't require stuffy, long clarifications, and completely kills any attempts to dig deeper. An ideal shield.

But here's the catch. "Fine" is a state of absolute calm. Dead water. It's not the pulsating joy of morning coffee with a crispy croissant in your favorite coffee shop. Not the quiet, deep satisfaction after a hard but great day at work. And not even the sharp, sobering pain of loss. It's just surviving at idle speed.

You don't seem to be falling. You stand firmly on your feet. But you don't move forward even a millimeter. You exist in some kind of endless waiting mode. And what exactly you're waiting for, you haven't understood for a long time.

Why are we hiding behind this shield?

Because it's damn convenient. A warm, viscous, familiar cocoon. You admit that everything is bad - you'll have to get off the couch and do something about it. Call, change, leave, take risks. You admit that everything is fine - you will have to take responsibility for your success, constantly meet the bar. And "fine" doesn't oblige you to anything at all.

Imagine the picture. You meet an old friend somewhere at the checkout in a supermarket. In your hands is a basket with milk on sale and evening discount pastries. He smiles dutifully and asks: "Well, how are you?". And you choose this answer. Because you are trivially tired. You don't want to burden a random passerby. You don't want to upset your loved ones.

And most importantly, you yourself don't fully understand what the hell is going on inside you. Or you're just scared to death to admit: the life that you are now silently carrying on your shoulders is not at all what you dreamed of, looking at the ceiling ten years ago.

A Weak Poison of Comfortable Dissatisfaction

Self-deception. It works frighteningly long and flawlessly. This is where its main poison lies. It's too easy to get used to "fine".

People live for years with this background, nagging feeling of nausea from their own lives, without ever saying it aloud. A person faithfully sets the alarm for 7:00. He takes the subway, staring at the phone with a glassy look. Builds some kind of relationship. Takes out a mortgage, flies to Turkey once a year. And inside - a ringing emptiness. Or a muffled, like under a heavy cotton blanket, irritation.

I remember my friend Max. He turned forty when we were sitting in a cramped bar, and he, twirling a glass wet with condensation in his hands, said: "I lived normally for ten years. Perfectly normally. An understandable position, a wife, a dog. And this morning I was standing in a traffic jam, looking at the brake lights ahead, and suddenly realized that I was ready to get out of the car right now and go on foot. Anywhere. Just away from it all."

For ten years, Max methodically smeared cracks on the facade of his reality with a thick layer of putty. He was not in despair. Just every day was like the previous one. Like two peas in a muddy puddle. Life on pause.

It's like a small pebble in your left shoe. At first it pisses you off, then you adapt to put your foot a little crooked. And then you forget what it's like to walk easily. Without pain. This pain doesn't knock you down. Therefore, no one goes for a band-aid.

A Lie to the Person in the Mirror

Refusal of honesty. When we throw this duty "everything is fine", we are not lying to the interlocutor. We are lying to the person on the other side of the mirror. We postpone a serious, tough conversation with ourselves for later. Until next Monday. Until spring.

We agree to the beta version of our life, knowing full well that it is crooked and full of bugs. And, you know, many get stuck in this limbo forever. Not because they are so good there. It's just that it's not so unbearably bad that they clench their teeth, grab a sledgehammer and smash everything to pieces.

And here I will say a terrible, perhaps, thing. A real, full-scale crisis is often salvation. Yes. It knocks the ground out from under your feet. Smashes the usual, cozy scenery to smithereens. Makes you rush around, gasp for breath in fear, look for a way out. But he is extremely honest.

And "fine" doesn't break anything. It just neatly, day after day, preserves you alive.

Taking off the Parking Brake

Stories of cool turns and real changes rarely begin with the words: "I was fine, and then I decided...". No. They start exactly at the moment when a person sits in the evening in a dark kitchen, looks at the blinking router and realizes: I can't answer like that anymore. The limit of patience to swallow this bland cardboard has simply ended.

What's there, behind this deaf screen? Disappointment in the work that already makes your jaws ache. Tiredness from relationships that resemble the polite neighborhood of two strangers in a reserved seat car. A feeling that time is slipping through your fingers. But until the diagnosis is voiced aloud, there is nothing to treat. To express it means to take on that very frightening responsibility. Uncertainty is frightening. But responsibility is frightening to the point of goosebumps down your spine.

Starting Point

But as soon as you stop hiding behind this convenient nine-letter word... The very second you exhale: "Listen, but everything is not normal at all," - the rusty gears begin to turn with a creak. Outwardly - silence. You are still sitting in the same kitchen. But tectonic plates are already shifting inside.

You start asking yourself tough, uncomfortable questions. You stop obediently agreeing to what they give. This doesn't make life any easier right now. But it makes it real. Alive.

"Everything is fine" is not Zen Buddhism. Not stability and not worldly wisdom. It's just a protracted commercial break in the middle of a movie you so wanted to see. Life at half strength. With the sound turned down to a minimum and a dim screen.

And if you suddenly catch yourself handing out this "fine" left and right - listen. Most likely, this is not your modesty. And not the notorious politeness. This is the internal siren howling. Sometimes the most honest, most bitter and therapeutic answer to the question about your life is a quiet "I don't know." Or a sharp "I categorically don't like what is happening now."

Comfort never starts with these words. But that's usually where your real life begins.