There’s a weight that comes with being far from the people you love. For me, it’s my parents. No matter how overwhelmed, stressed, or lost I feel, I’ve made it a habit to tell them, “Everything’s okay.” Not because I want to lie, but because I know how deeply they’d worry if I whispered even a fraction of my struggles. They’re miles away, and the thought of them feeling helpless, unable to reach me or “fix” things, hurts more than my silence.
So I swallow the words. Failed an exam? “I’m doing great, Mom!” Struglling at my job? “Work’s fine, Dad!” Feeling lonely, uncertain, or like I’m drowning in doubt? “Haha, don’t worry—everything’s under control!” I’ve perfected the art of masking chaos with calm.
But here’s the truth they don’t see: some days, this act is crushing. It’s not just the big things—it’s the tiny cracks, too. The loneliness of navigating adulthood alone. The fear of disappointing them after all they’ve sacrificed. The guilt of hiding my truth to spare theirs.
Why do I do this? Maybe because their love feels too fragile to burden. Maybe because I don’t want them lying awake, imagining worst-case scenarios. Or maybe because admitting “I’m not okay” would make this distance feel even wider.
So I keep smiling through phone calls. I laugh off my stress. I bury the messiness of life under a mountain of “I’m fine”s. But tonight, I’m admitting it: sometimes, it’s heavy. Sometimes, I’m tired. And maybe that’s okay.
To anyone else who’s mastered the art of “I’m fine” when you’re not—I see you. We’ll get through this. One day, maybe we’ll even believe our own words.
So I swallow the words. Failed an exam? “I’m doing great, Mom!” Struglling at my job? “Work’s fine, Dad!” Feeling lonely, uncertain, or like I’m drowning in doubt? “Haha, don’t worry—everything’s under control!” I’ve perfected the art of masking chaos with calm.
But here’s the truth they don’t see: some days, this act is crushing. It’s not just the big things—it’s the tiny cracks, too. The loneliness of navigating adulthood alone. The fear of disappointing them after all they’ve sacrificed. The guilt of hiding my truth to spare theirs.
Why do I do this? Maybe because their love feels too fragile to burden. Maybe because I don’t want them lying awake, imagining worst-case scenarios. Or maybe because admitting “I’m not okay” would make this distance feel even wider.
So I keep smiling through phone calls. I laugh off my stress. I bury the messiness of life under a mountain of “I’m fine”s. But tonight, I’m admitting it: sometimes, it’s heavy. Sometimes, I’m tired. And maybe that’s okay.
To anyone else who’s mastered the art of “I’m fine” when you’re not—I see you. We’ll get through this. One day, maybe we’ll even believe our own words.