I'm okay.
On the lies we tell ourselves to survive
I’m okay.
Two words. Big fat lie.
I don’t know how many times I’ve said those words, or when I first uttered them.
Was it as a child, after falling and scraping my knee, wishing I could really say, This hurts. Comfort me.
Or was it after a heartbreak– not receiving the grade or ranking at a musical competition I wanted, receiving hard news, or the end of my first romantic relationship?
I’ll never know.
Lying about our well-being is ingrained in our society, with greetings begging for the lie.
Hi, how are you?
Good, and you?
No one. No one wants to know the real answer, so we say fine and move on.
But those two falsely stated words — I’m okay — lengthened my nose the most when medical crises hit my children over and over again.
The first time, my daughter was eight months old. She was napping in a room while I taught piano. I heard an unusual sound from the bedroom. I ran to her side and found her convulsing with her eyes rolling back into her head.
My baby. What’s happening?
When the seizure stopped, she went limp in my arms. At first, I didn’t know what to think or do. Then, instinct kicked in.
I canceled the lesson, asked the parent to stay and supervise my other sleeping child while I rushed my daughter to the pediatrician. There, I learned she had had a febrile seizure. They said there would be no long-lasting impacts on her health. Keep an eye on her temperature and keep administering Tylenol to manage the fever.
She would be okay, they claimed. But would I?
My body still shook. My heart still pounded.
Where was the Tylenol to ease my pain? It couldn’t be found.
As I recounted the details to my then-husband, I received no empathy or compassion, just a blank stare. I learned quickly that there would be no aftercare given for my trauma.
I had no choice but to tell myself, I’m okay.
Those words followed me into her next seizure two years later. This time, having been indoctrinated by my faith, I felt obligated to suffer well in front of my church community, so they would be inspired by my faith and increase theirs.
With each subsequent seizure, each rush to the hospital, each doctor’s appointment with bad news, I adamantly remained okay. Even when she had multiple seizures a day, medications failed, and brain surgery became her only option, I remained steadfast in my okay-ness, outwardly declaring God’s goodness and my trust that he would work it all out.
Those around me didn’t know my internal story. Nor did I believe many of them wanted to hear it.
Each time she seized, my stomach churned, my heart raced, and tears welled up.
Shit, not again.
Keep her safe.
Stay calm.
Where’s my phone?
Damn it. Turn on. Where’s the camera app?
Record the video, document everything.
After each seizure, as she slept away the postictal symptoms, I emailed her doctors, took notes, and saved the video footage while preparing, if needed, to rush her to the hospital.
And I reset the clock — marking the event in red on my digital calendar, leaving a color-coded trail of her medical journey for me to witness each time I opened the app.
Zero days since her last seizure.
There was no time for me to rest. I knew what would come next: more medications, trips to CVS, trips to collect bloodwork, perhaps more hospital stays, inpatient or outpatient EEGs, and lots of waiting and hoping — but not too much hoping, because the bigger the dream, the larger the disappointment.
All this I carried inside my body, along with the memory of watching my little girl be taken over by forces outside her control but inside her body.
I’m okay was all I could say, or attempt to believe, lying to myself more than to those who asked, or didn’t.
I remained okay through her brain surgery, recovery, and subsequent mental and behavioral health challenges.
I remained okay until one day my not-okay-ness bubbled up.
Nothing in my life was okay. I was finally ready to admit I hadn’t been okay in a long, long time.
That was when I began my quest for the truth– my truth.
That was six and a half years ago.
Since that time, I’ve had to practice living honestly with myself and with others. Conditioned and taught to stay small, serve others, and not take up much space, learning to use my voice and advocate not only for my needs, but also for my wants, has been more difficult than I’d like to admit. Even pressing the button at a cashier’s countertop to ask for service feels like I’m being demanding.
After all, I’m okay. I can wait.
But I’ve been doing the work. I journal, I meditate, I connect with my body and soul through yoga and intuitive movement. I’ve strengthened my inner knowing and my voice. I’ve found places and spaces to practice not being okay.
And so, when crisis hit again last week, I was finally able to set the lie down.
I didn’t witness it, but her bus driver and brother did. While teaching piano, I saw the transcript of a voice message come through on my phone: “Elizabeth just had a seizure.” My heart retracted. My stomach sank.
Not again. It’s been seven years.
Medical mama jumped into action.
I called her bus driver as soon as I was available and asked detailed questions about what had been observed. Then I checked with her brother, who also saw the event. Then I spoke with my daughter, who wouldn’t normally have been able to tell me what happened, but who, this time, remembered bits and pieces, which was odd.
I emailed her doctor, took a call from the nurse, and notified a few loved ones who had been a part of her long-time journey.
With all that I could do at that time done, I sat on the couch and stared out the window.
How could this be happening again? What does this mean for her future?
I felt it all — the worry, the despair, the releasing of hard-earned hope once again, the increased fear for her future, and the dread of resuming her medications.
When my boyfriend arrived at the house to visit that night, I was in the middle of teaching my daughter how to use her emergency seizure medication — ironically, her yearly prescription having become available only hours before her seizure.
As I greeted him, I told him of her seizure.
How is she?
Fine. She’s okay now. There’s nothing else I can do for her.
The next question surprised and comforted me.
Are you okay?
Not remembering the last time I had been asked that question in the context of one of my children’s medical crises, I took a breath and said, No. I’m not okay.
Wow. I said it. That felt good and honest.
I am not okay.
I finally told the truth — to myself and to someone else.
How are you?
Honest answers only.
Journaling Prompts
If this piece stirred something in you, these questions are yours to sit with:
I’ve been telling myself…
Write about a time when you claimed to be okay, when you really were not.
How are you? Honest answers only.
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