Why “I’m Fine” Is the Most Dangerous Lie We Tell Ourselves

“I’m fine.”

We say it without thinking. Sometimes it’s automatic. Sometimes it’s a reflex. Sometimes it’s a desperate attempt to keep everything from spilling out. But rarely, if ever, is it true.

“I’m fine” is the most polished lie we tell — to our friends, our family, our coworkers, and most dangerously, to ourselves. It's a socially acceptable way to silence the alarm bells going off inside. A quick fix that buys us space to pretend we’re okay when we’re clearly not. It’s the smile we wear when our world is quietly falling apart. The nod we give when we’re actually drowning. The mask we put on when we don’t feel safe enough to show our real face.

And we get so good at it. So practiced in keeping it together, we start to believe the lie ourselves. We normalize the numbness. We dismiss the exhaustion. We minimize the pain, because admitting we’re not okay feels like failure. Like weakness. Like inconvenience. So we shrink our truth down into two tiny words that keep everyone, including ourselves, comfortably at a distance.

But here’s the danger — every time we say “I’m fine” when we’re not, we abandon ourselves just a little bit. We ignore what’s hurting. We deny what needs care. We silence the part of us that’s trying to be heard. And that silence, over time, becomes suffocating. What you bury doesn't die — it waits. It festers. It builds pressure. Until the dam breaks in ways you didn’t expect. A sudden breakdown. A bitter outburst. A numb kind of sadness you can’t explain.

We say “I’m fine” because we’ve been taught that being strong means being silent. That needing help is something to be ashamed of. That showing emotion makes us too much. So we compartmentalize. We smile through grief. We make jokes through heartbreak. We overfunction, over-give, over-extend — because if we’re busy enough, maybe we won’t have to feel.

But what kind of life are we living if our pain is always dressed up in performance? If the only version of ourselves the world gets to see is the curated, composed one?

The truth is, “I’m fine” robs us of connection. It pushes people away, even when all we want is for someone to notice we’re not okay. It makes our suffering invisible. It tells those around us that we don’t need support — even when we’re silently begging for it. And worst of all, it teaches us to stop trusting our own emotional experience. To gaslight our own soul.

There’s a quiet kind of power in telling the truth. Not the whole story, not all at once, but just enough to be real. Saying, “Today’s been hard.” Or, “I’m tired, but I don’t know why.” Or, “Honestly, I’m not okay right now.” Those little moments of honesty — even when they feel awkward or raw — create space. Space for empathy. For understanding. For breath. You don’t have to carry it all alone. You were never meant to.

We think people will love us less if we show them our mess. But often, it’s our vulnerability — not our perfection — that draws people in. The more honest we are about our struggles, the more human we become. And the more we normalize being not fine, the less alone everyone else feels too.

So the next time you catch yourself saying “I’m fine” when you're not, pause. Listen to what your body is actually saying. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself name it. Maybe you won’t tell the whole truth to everyone, but at the very least — tell it to yourself. Because that’s where healing starts. Not in pretending. Not in perfection. But in permission.

You don’t need to be fine.

You just need to be honest.

And that is more than enough.