Sometimes, I catch myself saying “everything’s fine!” without having the slightest idea what I’ve just been asked. It’s as if my tongue has taken the lead at the start of a Formula 1 race, signing a social contract before my brain has even had time to read the fine print. That phrase, so perfectly round and functional, slips out like a reflexive click, like the shrug we give when we don’t understand something, like an unconscious bow to the dizzying pace of modern life.
We live on autopilot. Greetings we don't hear, replies we don't feel, smiles born not from the soul but from learned mimicry. We move between offices, supermarkets, and video calls like actors who have memorized their script too well. A script without pauses. Without hesitation. Without room for "I don't know" or "actually, I'm not so well . "
And after these two or three years of the pandemic, everything intensified. Isolation made us unaccustomed to real closeness, turning us into experts at using screens but clumsy in person. We learned to live through video calls where you can hang up when things get uncomfortable, where you have the mute button as a lifeline. Now that we're back in the world, we continue to act as if we still have that invisible button. As if real conversations were endless Zoom meetings we can't escape.
Have you noticed how we divide time now? We no longer say "in 2019" or "in 2023." We say "before COVID" or "after the pandemic," right? As if those years split history in two. And they did split us. They marked us so deeply that we no longer know how to measure time without that reference point. It's true that when someone tells us something, we automatically ask, "Was that before or after?"
The muscle of vulnerability has atrophied. We've forgotten how to hold someone's gaze when they genuinely ask how we are. Don't hugs feel strange now? As if we've lost the instruction manual for being human.
The questions give it a more direct, more intimate tone. As if you were speaking to the reader face to face, seeking that connection.
“Everything’s fine!” And as I say it, perhaps I’m thinking about an overdue bill, an unresolved argument, that dull anxiety that doesn’t scream but pushes. But how do you tell someone that the day is a whirlwind if what they’re waiting for is a green light to keep going?
We tell ourselves we don't want to burden others with our negativity, that nobody wants to hear about other people's problems in an already messed-up world. But that's a lie. A convenient lie that saves us the trouble of being real. Because I don't see the truth as negative; it's human. Saying you're tired isn't negativity, it's honesty. Admitting you're afraid doesn't pollute the atmosphere, it humanizes it. I think we've confused authenticity with toxicity, and in that confusion, we lost the ability to truly connect.
It's curious, because there are times when we want to respond with the raw truth: "I'm struggling today , " "I'm tired of pretending , " "I'm afraid I won't get anywhere ." But we don't. Perhaps because we know that kind of truth doesn't fit in hurried hallways, elevators, or voicemails that don't exceed 30 seconds. We're... a collective choreography of functional responses, like an automatic filter that disguises the background noise of our lives.
And yet, this everyday disconnection also speaks to something deeper. To how difficult it is for us, even with ourselves, to stop and listen to what we're truly feeling. There are days when even I wouldn't know for sure how I am. Days when the most honest answer would be silence.
I remember once, in a market in Istanbul, a vendor asked me how I was. It wasn't a mechanical greeting. He asked with an almost uncomfortable slowness, as if he wasn't in any hurry to hear the answer. "I'm tired ," I said without thinking. He smiled at me, nodded, and poured two cups of tea. We remained silent. No one explained anything. But in that gesture, I found more understanding than in hundreds of accumulated "everything's fine."
Perhaps that's why I write. To reprogram my reflexes. To find the questions we no longer ask ourselves. When was the last time someone looked you in the eyes and truly waited for you to think about your answer? When was the last time you spoke the truth without fear of making someone uncomfortable?
There's a rare tenderness in admitting we're tired of pretending. And a strength, too. Because beneath the facade lies raw emotion, the soul that still yearns to connect. Amidst so much emotional automation, sometimes all it takes is a couple more seconds, a pause, a breath… and to say: “You know what? Not everything is alright. But I'm here.”