It’s Okay

People came when things were already bad.

No one came early.

No one came curious.

They came when words stopped working everywhere else.

The therapist learned this quickly—not from training, but from the way people sat down. Too carefully. As if the chair might judge them.

Some cried the moment they spoke.

Some cried before they spoke.

Some didn’t cry at all, which was usually worse.

The screaming ones were the hardest.

Not because they were loud—

but because they were clear.

They didn’t circle their pain.

They didn’t soften it.

They didn’t translate it.

They said things like:

“I can’t do this anymore.”

They said it again when asked to explain.

They said it louder when offered breathing exercises.

Eventually, they said it hoarse.

The therapist nodded. She always nodded.

Nodding was neutral. Nodding was safe.

Later, in her notes, screaming became:

Emotional dysregulation.

Heightened distress.

Difficulty self-soothing.

Words that sounded like solutions.

The screaming quieted after that—

not because it stopped,

but because it learned it wouldn’t be answered in its own language.

He came in already loud.

Not shouting—

but loud in the way his hands shook, in the way his words tripped over each other trying to get out first.

“I can’t sleep,” he said.

“I can’t stop thinking.”

“I wake up already tired.”

He leaned forward when he spoke, as if proximity might help.

The therapist listened.

She let him finish. She always did.

Interrupting felt rude.

When he finally stopped, breath uneven, she said gently,

“It’s okay.”

The words landed softly.

Relief flashed across his face—quick, desperate.

Someone believed him.

The next week, he came back.

He spoke faster this time.

“It’s worse,” he said.

“I tried what you suggested.”

“I really did.”

He laughed once, sharp and wrong.

“I almost didn’t come today.”

The therapist nodded again.

“It’s okay,” she said.

She offered adjustments. Alternatives. Reframing.

Later, she wrote:

Persistent distress. Motivated. Insightful.

Words that sounded promising.

By the third session, his voice was quieter.

Not calmer—

just smaller.

He paused before answering now. Checked her face. Adjusted his tone.

“I still feel it,” he said.

“But I can manage.”

The therapist smiled.

“That’s good,” she said.

“It’s okay to not be okay all the time.”

He smiled back, uncertain.

In her notes, she wrote:

Improving. Reduced intensity.

By the fifth session, he barely raised his eyes.

“I think I’m doing better,” he said.

He said it the way someone repeats instructions.

The therapist felt satisfied.

Progress looked like this.

“It’s okay,” she said.

She meant it as encouragement.

When he stopped coming, she marked him as:

Resolved.

No screaming.

No follow-up.

Just a word that closed the file.

The next patient arrived ten minutes later.

She didn’t sit down.

“I don’t know how to say this without sounding crazy,” she said.

Her voice cracked immediately.

The therapist gestured to the chair.

“Take your time,” she said.

The woman inhaled sharply.

“I can’t live like this.”

The therapist nodded.

“It’s okay.”

Somewhere between sessions, it’s okay stopped meaning I hear you.

It began to mean:

This fits inside the system.

This can be managed.

This won’t interrupt anything.

Every time the screaming softened,

it was praised.

The therapist noticed it one afternoon.

Not consciously.

Not in a way she could explain.

The room just felt… quieter.

The clock sounded louder.

The pauses longer.

People asked questions now instead of making statements.

“Is this normal?”

“Should I be feeling this way?”

“Am I doing this right?”

She reassured them.

“It’s okay.”

She said it often enough that it stopped sounding like language and became tone.

Later, flipping through her notebook, she noticed something odd.

There were fewer underlines.

Fewer exclamation marks.

Fewer phrases that resisted translation.

Everything fit.

The files were thinner.

She told herself this meant improvement.

Outside the room, the first screamer stood on a train platform.

People passed him without looking.

No one could tell he used to scream.

He had learned the correct volume.

The correct posture.

The correct answers.

I’m managing.

I’m doing better.

It’s okay.

His chest still tightened every morning.

His hands still shook at night.

But he didn’t say those things anymore.

They sounded excessive.

At work, when his mind went blank mid-sentence, he laughed it off.

At home, when the silence pressed too hard, he turned the TV louder.

He missed the sessions sometimes.

Not the talking—

the permission.

By the end of the week, no one remembered he’d ever been a problem.

That felt like success.

Back in the room, she arrived without an appointment.

Didn’t sit.

Didn’t wait.

“I’ve been here before,” she said.

“Different offices. Same words.”

Her voice didn’t crack.

It burned.

The therapist gestured to the chair.

“Take a breath,” she said gently.

“No,” the woman replied.

“I’m not here to calm down.”

Silence stretched.

“I’ve been told it’s okay,” the woman continued.

“I’ve been told I’m safe. Functional. Improving.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t humor.

“Why does it still hurt?”

The therapist felt something unfamiliar.

Pressure.

She reached for training. For language.

“It takes time—”

“No,” the woman interrupted. Louder now.

“It takes change.”

The word didn’t fit.

“It’s okay to feel—”

“No,” the woman said again.

“It’s not.”

People in the waiting room shifted.

The therapist thought about the clock.

The protocols.

The notes.

She thought about the word okay—how useful it had been.

“I think,” she said carefully,

“we need to lower the intensity of this conversation.”

The woman laughed once.

“That’s what you all say.”

The woman was escorted out politely.

Not restrained.

Not argued with.

Just guided—hands open, voice calm.

The therapist watched the waiting room settle back into stillness. Someone checked their phone. Someone coughed.

Order returned quickly.

Too quickly.

She returned to her desk and opened the notebook. Turned to a fresh page.

Her pen hovered.

Uncooperative.

Elevated affect.

Resistant to treatment.

None of it felt wrong.

She wrote anyway.

That evening, she paused by the hallway mirror.

She looked tired.

But stable. Functional.

Okay.

As she left, she glanced at the waiting room chairs—neatly aligned, empty, quiet.

She understood then what okay really meant.

It didn’t mean the pain was gone.

It meant the pain had learned how to stop interrupting.

She locked the door behind her.

Everything was okay.