Inspired by an acronym I once heard for “fine,” here’s my current take:
F—Fucked-up
I—Isolated
N—Nettled
E—Exhausted
At the start of a Zoom meeting with a new colleague, when we exchanged pleasantries, I asked how she was doing. “Fine,” she answered. Then she asked me, and I gave a half-hearted, “Eh, so-so,” probably with a chuckle. Hearing that, she admitted that she wasn’t doing so great after all. The transparency upped the ante for our meeting, where we each touched on both our professional and personal needs, and on ways to further collaborate to serve our clients.
Later, I was outside when my neighbor called over from her driveway asking how I was. “Fine, yeah, okay.” I told her I was preparing for a performance. When I asked how she was doing, her first words were, “Okay, fine.” That quickly shifted as she shared her reality. Her mother was in the hospital with a serious condition. Her ex-husband might need to go back to the hospital. Her father had recently been hospitalized—and wasn’t doing great. Her daughter had a concussion, and she was on antibiotics for pneumonia. When I responded, “Yeah, that’s not okay,” she momentarily said she’d be okay and then continued telling me about her life.
I understood how some part of us—or our spirit—knows we will be okay no matter what, even when life is messed up. And how we routinely say we’re fine when we aren’t. Both responses to our current realities co-exist. Sometimes, we just need a listening ear, someone to know the dichotomy of our life so we don’t feel so darn alone.
Resilience—the new buzzword that people often tout, and a word I rarely use—is sometimes called upon. But resilience isn’t necessarily about pushing through the tough times, overcoming adversity, or being strong. Sometimes, it’s knowing that when life falls apart, we’ll be okay. Even when we don’t feel okay or able to “rise above it all.” Let’s face it: we are not dough rising daily. Life can be hard. It presses in on us, and often, our own minds can be the worst offenders, bullying us with those private, silent, bossy conversations about how we should or should not be.
We want to be less isolated in our struggles—not left holding the entire container of troubles alone. But we’re so busy slaving at our life to make it work that we forget what truly helps us. We forget to rest, to play, to let ourselves unravel and cry, or to find and laugh with the right people—those who truly understand us—so we can return to feel the love that surrounds us, even when we’re not fully aware of it.
Think of it this way: a great swimmer doesn’t consciously think about the water—they just swim. We, as humans, don’t think about the air we breathe, but it’s always there, like love. And it’s through our listening presence, like the air we breathe, that we offer love to others. Not by fixing their problems, but by hearing their stories, and listening to their pain. It’s one of the most loving things we can offer: our time, our empathy and compassion.
And when no one’s around and I find myself alone, feeling down, and less than fine, I turn to the page. I sit at my altar, look at pictures of my loved ones—many now gone from this Earth—and write my heart out. In doing so, a peace descends, the Creative speaks, and I feel less alone because I have given myself the time to accompany me. I, then, enter my day more grounded, aligned with my heart, body, mind, and soul. Recognizing what I truly feel brings sweet relief and acceptance for who I am—right now, today. Even—and maybe especially— when no one else is around. And that is one of the powers of writing or of keeping a journal.
In the meantime, I wish you a sweet connection—a day when someone crosses your path, giving you the chance to extend your heart and listening ear when they say ‘Fine,’ even though you sense they are not—or for them to do the same for you. I also wish for you a notebook and pen, or a computer and keys, where you can pour out your feelings and re-establish a warm connection with your own heart, in harmony with yourself, however that may be.