I’m Fine (And Other Lies I Tell)

Sungjem Aier — Sun, 20 Apr 2025 11:30:00 +0000

I had a panic attack recently.

At least I think it was a panic attack. My hands trembled.

Could’ve been the anxiety. Might be the double shot of coffee.
Who knows. Who cares.

But I still had to show up to work and help someone else with their life…
While mine was unravelling in the background, quietly, invisibly.

I couldn’t sleep last night.
Again.

Could’ve been the racing thoughts. Might’ve been the dread in the pit of my stomach. Could’ve been everything all at once.

But I had to show up. To fix someone else’s broken pieces.
While mine were like fractured pieces across my chest.

There was a lump in my throat. My heart was doing this thing where it races, then stops, then races again. I felt helpless. Heavy. Like my mind, heart, and body were all maxed out on emotions I didn’t have room for.

But I still had to sit across from someone and help them make sense of their chaos, while mine quietly boiled under my skin. I had to soothe their fears, hold their grief, listen with empathy, offer insight, connect the dots. I had to hold space for their pain while mine sat uninvited in the corner of the room.

And no one knew.

Maybe you feel it too.

Overstimulated, under-supported

That’s the thing- emotionally intelligent people also struggle to name their own pain. Even those trained in the art of listening- therapists, helpers, healers – get lost in their own noise.

We get anxious too. We fall apart too.

We just do it quietly. Efficiently. In the dark, behind closed doors, in the moments between back-to-back responsibilities.

You see the missed calls and unread messages pile up and you turn your phone to DND.

Flight mode.

Mobile data off.

Because the sound of it buzzing makes your chest tighten.

You still show up, though. You get to work. You soften your voice, make space for their hurt, gently fit their pieces together while your own feel scattered across a hundred places.

Drowning Without a Sound

Sometimes the anxiety comes like a silent flood.
No warning, no noise, not dramatic.
Just a slow, steady drowning.

You might even look calm to everyone around you. But inside, your body is screaming in a language no one else seems to hear. The kind of scream that doesn’t make a sound because you don’t have the words to explain it.
Or the energy.
Or the permission.

You don’t want anyone to worry. You don’t want to explain. You just want to disappear for a bit without it becoming a thing.

So you hide out. In strange places. In places you don’t normally go. You avoid your own home, your regular café, the usual routes because they feel too loud with memory.

When the panic doesn’t subside, I search for unfamiliarity. For new sensations, unlikely corners, unfamiliar textures. Anything to remind me I’m still here, still moving, still outside the spiral. Anything to distract me from the ache I couldn’t name.

And you don’t want pity. You don’t want a crisis hotline. You don’t want to talk about it. Not with a friend. Not with a therapist. Because how do you explain something you don’t understand?

Running on Empty

It’s a weird kind of burnout you know, the emotional kind. Not the “I’ve been working 16-hour days” kind, but the “I don’t have the capacity to feel another thing” kind.

You want to feel less.
But also, you want to feel something.

You want to rest.
But there’s always something that needs doing.

The world doesn’t stop. Deadlines don’t care.
And yet your brain is on fire.

So I do. I show up. I fix lives. I put the puzzle pieces together for other people, even when I feel like I’ve misplaced my own.

You laugh on cue. You ask how someone’s been. You listen and end the call with, “Take care, I’m here if you need me.”

But you’re not here.

Overflowing, But Not Crumbling

If any of this sounds familiar, I just want to say, your body is begging for rest. Not sleep. But stillness. Safety. A break from having to be the one who always understands. Always absorbs. Always adapts.

You might not have words for what you’re feeling.
But you’re not the only one feeling it.

And maybe no one will fully understand. Maybe they’ll never quite get what you mean when you say “I’m fine” with a smile that feels like betrayal.
But someone out there reading this, breathing quietly like you are, gets it.

And that’s something.
That’s not everything.
But it’s something.

This isn’t a confession. It’s a reminder.

A reminder that those who carry others often carry their own weight in silence. That even the ones who seem composed can be cracking inside. Especially for people who are used to being the caregivers, the listeners, the problem-solvers, the empaths- we get so good at helping others through their storms, we often forget to notice when we’re drowning too.

So here I am, sitting in an unfamiliar study room, fingers hovering over the keys, surrounded by quiet strangers.

And I wonder:

Did I choose wrong?

Did I fail someone?

Did I fail myself?

And then I’ll wake up tomorrow. I’ll do it all again.
I just hope someone sees the version of me that didn’t make it to the room.