To the Woman Who Says “I’m Fine” Because She Doesn’t Know What Else to Say

Dearest tender hearted reader,

Darling, you said “I’m fine,” and I nearly burst out laughing. Not because it was funny, but because I’ve said it so many times myself that I could win an Oscar for the performance. You know the one, smiling with teeth clenched like a Jane Austen heroine suppressing a full-scale emotional meltdown in a drawing room. Graceful. Polite. Painfully repressed.

The truth? I wasn’t fine. And I’m guessing, lovely, neither are you.

I used to say “I’m fine” when my heart was so heavy I thought it might tumble out of my chest onto the kitchen floor like a dropped bottle of red wine, spilling, staining, impossible to clean. I said it when I didn’t want to cry in front of people who wouldn't know what to do with my tears (spoiler alert: they rarely do). I said it when I didn’t want to be anyone’s burden. When I was exhausted. Tired of giving. Tired of being "the strong one." Tired of being impressive.

You know the performance. You answer emails with exclamation marks you don’t feel. You show up, dressed immaculately, even when your soul feels like it's wearing last season’s grief. You flirt, even. A little. Because if you can still make someone laugh, you must be okay, right?

Here’s the rub: high-value women like us… we know how to wear pain like pearls. Elegant. Discreet. Poised. And yet, pain is still pain. Whether it’s delivered with a sharp stiletto or a soft sigh.

Sometimes, it’s not even a tragedy you can name, it’s just that hollow ache. That longing for something, no, someone, who sees you. The real you. The girl behind the polished Instagram story. The woman whose silence screams louder than her voice ever could. The woman who needs a break, but also a breakthrough. Who wants to be held, but would rather die than ask.

We say “I’m fine” because we don’t know how to admit we’re scared. That the life we curated with precision and Pinterest boards feels like a perfectly lit museum exhibit, admired but untouchable. That we’re lonely in rooms full of admirers. That we’re afraid to stop striving because we don’t know who we are without the performance.

But here’s what I want to tell you, what I need to tell you.

You don’t have to earn rest. You don’t have to bleed to be believed. You don’t have to fracture before you're allowed to be tended to. You don’t have to apologise for wanting a love that is more than polite affection or Instagrammable dinners with men who think being emotionally available is “feminine energy.”

You are not fine. And that’s fine.

I’ve had nights where I prayed so hard for peace I nearly passed out from the strain. Days where my mascara held it together better than I did. Moments where I knew I could give a TED Talk on emotional resilience while internally screaming, “Dear God, someone just hug me.”

But I’ve also had mornings where I woke up, made tea, and thought, “Maybe today won’t be terrible.” And that’s how it starts. With maybes. With tiny rebellions against numbness. With noticing that the sun looks a bit smug today, and laughing at the ridiculousness of giving celestial bodies personalities.

So, darling, the next time someone asks how you are, you can say:

“I’m complicated.”

“I’m working through it.”

“I’m not okay, but I’m still showing up.”

Or if all else fails, try:

“I’m currently unavailable for emotional inquiries, but thank you for your concern.”

(Throw in a wink if you’re feeling spicy.)

You are allowed to be messy. Magnificent. Mourning and magnetic. You are allowed to feel everything and still know your worth. You are allowed to be not okay, without surrendering your crown.

And remember this: being “fine” is wildly overrated. Be real instead.

With all my love and an aggressively supportive wink.

With ink-stained fingers and a heart half-stitched,

Calliope Orford