THE PAUSE BEFORE SAYING ‘I’M FINE’ WHEN YOU’RE NOT

— A heartbeat of truth before the performance begins.

It’s less than a second. But in that second, everything trembles.

“Are you okay?”

A simple question—one we hear often, sometimes in passing, sometimes with concern. And just before we answer—“I’m fine”—there’s a pause.

It’s small. So small that most people don’t notice it. But if you listen carefully, if you’ve ever carried heaviness yourself, you can hear the shift. It’s the kind of pause where the body catches its breath before the mouth says what it’s supposed to. Where the eyes dart away. The lips hesitate. The shoulders lift just slightly—preparing, maybe, for the performance.

Because we aren’t fine. But we need to be.

Especially in cultures like ours, where emotions are treated like something best managed quietly. In Nepali households, you learn early what to say to keep peace. Thik chha. Ma sanchai chhu. We repeat these phrases like passwords to emotional invisibility. Not because we’re liars, but because we are protectors—of the other person’s comfort, of our own privacy, of the fragile thread holding the day together.

“I’m fine” becomes less of a statement and more of a shield.

We say it in office hallways when a colleague asks casually, though we haven’t slept in days. We say it in kitchens while stirring daal, even when grief sits heavy just behind our ribs. We say it on the phone to parents, not wanting to worry them. We say it to friends because we don’t want to be the heavy one in the group chat.

And that pause—that heartbeat before the lie—is the only honest part of the exchange.

In that tiny silence lives the truth: I want to tell you. But I can’t right now. Or I don’t know how. Or I’ve told people before and they didn’t really hear me.

Sometimes, the pause is also a negotiation with ourselves. A scan of the environment: Is this person safe? Do they really want to know? Is now the time? And more often than not, the answer is no. So we inhale, exhale, and say, “I’m fine.” And the moment moves on.

But what if we paid attention to that pause?

What if we gave people space not just to answer but to answer truthfully? What if we noticed when someone looked away before replying? What if, instead of nodding and walking off, we waited a little longer, asked a second time—not with force, but with presence?

Of course, not every “I’m fine” is a lie. Sometimes it really does mean, “I’m handling it.” But when it isn’t—when the pause carries weight—we should learn to hear it.

Because in that pause, a story wants to be told. A small hand reaches out. A truth lingers, waiting to be met with kindness.

And maybe we can’t always fix what’s behind it. But we can witness it. And sometimes, that’s all someone needs—to be seen in the silence between the question and the answer.