“I’m Fine” May Be the Kindest Lie Someone Tells You

 

During my years behind a microphone, I learnt that silence was something to avoid. In radio, even a few unexpected seconds of silence can make the listener wonder whether something has gone wrong. As a performer, I learnt something different: a carefully placed pause can sometimes communicate more powerfully than words. And now, as a counsellor, I have come to understand a third kind of silence—the silence of a person who has been asked, “Are you OK?” but does not yet feel safe enough to answer.

That silence is rarely empty.

On R U OK? Day, we encourage people to ask one another a simple and important question. This year, the day falls on Thursday, 10 September 2026. Across Australia, workplaces, schools and community organisations will turn yellow. There will be morning teas, posters, photographs and messages reminding us that a conversation can change a life. All of this matters. According to R U OK?’s 2026 Impact Tracker, nine out of ten people who were asked if they were OK reported feeling grateful, cared about and supported.

Yet I find myself thinking about the answer we hear most often:

“I’m fine.”

We usually interpret those two words as reassurance. We asked; the person answered; our concern can now rest. But what if “I’m fine” does not actually mean “Nothing is wrong”? What if it means, “I don’t know whether you can carry what I am about to tell you”? What if the person in pain is not avoiding the conversation but protecting us from it?

This is something we rarely consider. We imagine that distressed people remain silent because they are ashamed, private or unable to express themselves. Sometimes that is true. But people also hide their pain because they have become highly skilled at reading other people. They notice our hurried glance at the phone, our discomfort with tears, our eagerness to offer a quick solution and our relief when they say they are all right. Within seconds, they understand what kind of answer we are prepared to receive.

Then they give it to us.

“I’m fine” may therefore be less a statement about their wellbeing and more an assessment of our emotional availability.

I have spent much of my life among people—as a teacher, an artist, a broadcaster, a community worker, a friend, a mother and now a counsellor. One lesson has followed me through every role: human beings do not disclose their deepest pain simply because the correct question has been asked. They speak when the space around the question feels safe.

A microphone can record a voice, but it cannot make a person speak honestly. A counsellor’s chair can invite disclosure, but it cannot command trust. In the same way, “Are you OK?” may open a door, but the person standing on the other side still needs to decide whether it is safe to enter.

Sometimes our own reactions quietly close that door. We say, “Don’t think too much.” We remind the person that others have greater problems. We immediately search for a positive side. We explain what we would do in the same situation. We may even turn their disclosure into a story about our own suffering. None of this necessarily comes from cruelty. Often, it comes from love mixed with helplessness. We want the discomfort to end because we care—but the person may experience our urgency as a message: Please become all right quickly, because your pain is making me uncomfortable.

There is another response that is even more common in families and close communities: investigation disguised as concern. We ask what happened, who said what, why the person tolerated it and what they plan to do next. The conversation begins to resemble an inquiry. The person who needed warmth now feels they must present evidence, defend their choices and prove that their pain is reasonable.

Perhaps this is why some people speak more freely to a stranger than to someone they love. A stranger does not have a fixed idea of who they are supposed to be.

The strong woman may fear that her family will panic if she admits she is exhausted. The cheerful colleague may worry that honesty will change how others see him at work. The person who has always solved everyone else’s problems may not know how to become the one needing help. A parent may remain silent because the children already have enough to manage. A migrant may avoid speaking because the sacrifices made to build a new life seem to leave no moral permission to say, “I am unhappy here.” An artist who can hold an audience with confidence may return home and find no words for her own loneliness.

We often assume that capable people will ask for help when they need it. In my experience, capability can become a particularly convincing disguise. The person continues cooking, working, performing, attending social events and responding to messages. Because life has not visibly collapsed, we assume the person is coping. But functioning and wellbeing are not the same thing. Sometimes functioning is simply the discipline with which suffering has learnt to dress itself.

This is why I believe the real question on R U OK? Day is not only, “Did I ask?” It is also, “What happens to people when they answer me honestly?”

Do they receive my attention or my advice? Do I keep their confidence, or does their pain become tomorrow’s family discussion? Do I allow them to be confused, contradictory or tearful, or do I demand a clear explanation? Can they tell me something I do not want to hear without having to comfort me for hearing it?

These are uncomfortable questions, but perhaps R U OK? Day should make us slightly uncomfortable. Awareness without self-examination can easily become performance. We can wear yellow, share a thoughtful quotation and still remain emotionally unavailable to the people closest to us.

As a counsellor, I know that listening is often misunderstood as remaining quiet until it is our turn to speak. Genuine listening is different. It requires us to suspend the need to correct, compare, diagnose or rescue. It means allowing another person’s reality to exist without immediately rearranging it into something more comfortable for us.

It can sound as simple as: “You don’t have to make this sound better for me.” Or, “I may not know how to solve it, but I can stay with you while you talk.” Sometimes the most compassionate response is, “Take your time.” At other times, it is, “Would you like me simply to listen, or would you like us to think about what might help?”

These words return choice to the person. Pain often makes people feel that control has been taken from them; our conversation should not take away more.

We also need to remember that a person may not answer the first time. R U OK? recommends four connected steps: ask, listen, encourage action and check in. I find the final step especially meaningful because it proves that our concern was not ceremonial. A message several days later—“I’ve been thinking about what you told me”—can carry more weight than an impressive conversation held once a year.

Checking in also helps when the first answer was “I’m fine.” We do not have to challenge it aggressively or say, “I know you’re lying.” We can respond gently: “All right, but I have noticed that you seem quieter than usual. You don’t have to talk now, but I’m here.” Then we must behave in a way that makes those words believable.

Of course, care does not mean taking sole responsibility for another person’s safety or becoming their therapist. Some pain needs professional help, and some situations require urgent intervention. If a person has been deeply distressed for some time, appears unable to stay safe or speaks about suicide, encouraging professional or crisis support is an act of care, not abandonment. If life is in immediate danger, call 000. Lifeline provides confidential crisis support at any time on 13 11 14, by text on 0477 13 11 14, and through online chat. Beyond Blue can also be contacted on 1300 22 4636 for free, confidential brief counselling.

But even professional help often begins with an ordinary human moment: someone notices, someone stays and someone does not look away.

This R U OK? Day, I will certainly ask the question. But before I ask it, I want to ask something of myself: Am I emotionally present? Do I have time? Can I hear an answer that may be untidy, painful or inconvenient? Can I resist turning another person’s vulnerability into advice, judgment, gossip or a story about me?

Most importantly, have I become the kind of person in whose presence someone does not need to say, “I’m fine”?

Perhaps that is the deeper purpose of R U OK? Day—not simply to teach us three words, but to help us become safer listeners. The question may open the conversation, but our response determines whether honesty is allowed to remain in the room.

After a lifetime spent working with words—in classrooms, on stage, behind a microphone, within the community and now in the counselling space—I have developed great respect for the words people speak. I have developed even greater respect for the words they almost speak and then swallow.

So, when someone says, “I’m fine,” do not immediately assume the conversation is over. Notice the pause. Notice the eyes that move away. Notice the smile that arrived a little too quickly.

Sometimes the truth is not hidden behind silence.

Sometimes it is hidden behind perfect manners.

R U OK? Day is Thursday, 10 September 2026. Guidance for meaningful conversations is available from R U OK?. For crisis support, contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 or text 0477 13 11 14. Beyond Blue is available on 1300 22 4636. If life is in immediate danger, call 000.