The Cost of Being Fine

“I’m fine.”

It’s the safest answer when you don’t have the language for what’s actually wrong.
It’s the answer you give when everything feels heavy… not emotionally heavy… soul heavy.

When I said I was fine, what I meant was this:
Everything was wrong.
Sometimes life felt like it was actively falling apart.
Other times, it was quieter than that.
I had drifted so far from myself that I didn’t even know who I was anymore.

“Fine” became a placeholder.
A script.
A way to keep moving without stopping long enough to feel the weight of what I was carrying.

What made it harder was that, from the outside, I looked functional.
Reliable.
Capable.
I was getting things done.
I was being everything to everyone.
I was praised for it.

That praise cost me more than I realized.

The first thing to go was my energy.
Not tired… depleted.
The kind of exhaustion sleep doesn’t touch.

Then my relationships started to suffer.
At home.
At work.
In my marriage.
With my kids.
With my family.
With friends.

Not because I didn’t care.
But because there was nothing left to give that wasn’t already spent.

What I lost internally before anything fell apart externally was softness.
I couldn’t afford it.
I couldn’t afford rest.
I couldn’t afford care.
Self-care wasn’t indulgent… it felt irresponsible.

Being composed stopped feeling like strength and started feeling like a cage.
I couldn’t move outside of it.
I couldn’t show up as myself.
I felt guilty for happiness because there was always more to do.
More to manage.
More to hold together.

The moment that changed everything wasn’t dramatic.
It was sobering.

I was angry all the time.
And the people around me were angry too.

I was making rooms heavier.
Conversations sharper.
Energy toxic.

I had to face a truth I didn’t want to admit:
Functioning is not the same as being grounded.

I wasn’t leading myself.
I was managing survival.

Staying “fine” protected me from change.
From looking in the mirror.
From acknowledging the part no one else could fix.

No one was responsible for changing my life but me.
Not my friends.
Not my husband.
Not my family.
Not work.
Not circumstances.

That realization didn’t feel empowering.
It felt sobering.
And freeing.

What became possible once I stopped pretending I was okay wasn’t instant clarity.
It was permission.

Internal permission came first.
Then behavior.
Then tone.

Boundaries returned slowly.
Regulation came back in pieces.
Standards were rebuilt… not invented… reclaimed.

And here’s the part I wish someone had told me earlier:
This isn’t a one-time moment.

Life doesn’t stop because you look in the mirror once.
Pressure doesn’t disappear because you name the truth.
Self-command is a skill.
It requires realignment.
Again and again.

Waiting hurts you more than beginning ever will.

Not because beginning is easy.
But because waiting keeps charging interest.

If any part of this feels familiar…
not emotionally, but quietly…
that’s not coincidence.

The Mirror isn’t asking you to fix yourself.
It’s asking you to stop avoiding yourself.

And that’s where everything actually begins.

Never forget…
Your Grit is Gorgeous.

-Maven