When I was seventeen, my brother took his life. I was sent back to school with, in effect, you got this. I was already good at being fine. I got so good at it that it stopped feeling like a skill and started feeling like my personality.
I pay attention to that word now. Someone can be capable, dependable, and still having a hard time. I want there to be room to say so, including for the person everyone else leans on.
In my family, I learned to be the steady one while my brother was struggling. I got good grades, made people laugh, and learned to keep what I needed to myself. It became hard to recognize how much I was carrying.
Years later, when my practice was doing well, my gut pain was worse and I wasn't sleeping. I kept trying the things that had helped before. Eventually, I asked for help. Working with my therapist, I began to understand how long I had been living in that role.
For me, the way back included learning to rest, set limits, and let people see me when I wasn't feeling so great. It was slow and uneven. Even asking the person closest to me for support could be difficult.
I still say fine. I hear it leave my mouth before I've checked whether it's true. Sometimes I catch it now. Fifteen minutes into a podcast this spring, I told the host I was nervous. The flutter in my chest stayed, and I talked anyway.