Hello Reader!
I hope you are well.
When anyone asks you “how are you?”, do you, like me, answer automatically, “I’m fine,” even though you may not be? It’s an interesting social convention, like a ritual opening, but one that potentially masks the deeper regard we hold about ourselves. Most of the time, the person asking doesn't expect a complete inventory of our physical, emotional, relational, and existential state. Imagine answering honestly every single time, at school drop-off, in the grocery store, before a meeting? We'd all go crazy.
So yes, sometimes “I’m fine” is just a social agreement. It keeps things moving. It protects our privacy. It lets us choose when, where, and with whom we reveal ourselves.
But I have been wondering about the other kind of “I’m fine,” the one we say not only to others, but to ourselves.
Musings
I see this all the time in session. In the beginning, almost everyone says they are “ok.” It is only when I ask more questions that the truth starts to come out.
As you lie on the floor, or on my therapy table, are you really comfortable? Most people tend to say, “sure, I’m fine.” But then when I offer options for more comfort, an extra support under the knees, a different position for the head, a softer way to place the arm, they often realize they were not actually fine at all. That hip was uncomfortable, there was a twinge somewhere, the neck was working too hard, the back was already slightly guarding, or there was pain that had simply been filed under “normal.”
This fascinates me, because very often the body was already speaking, but the person had not yet allowed themselves to listen.
And of course, this doesn't only apply to physical comfort. When there is an uncomfortable emotion, or a painful memory, how often do we swallow our tears and push them away immediately because we don't want to burden the other person? How often do we tell ourselves that something doesn't matter, that we're too sensitive, that we should be over it by now, that others have it worse, or that we can deal with it later?
Depending on where you are, social convention may not require a fully truthful answer. We do not owe everyone access to our inner life. But when you are alone, or in the presence of a trusted other, do you really allow yourself to be not 100% fine? What do you think would happen if you did?
I don't mean collapsing into every discomfort, dramatizing everything or performing honesty. I'm interested in something much more subtle than that: the moment when “I’m fine” becomes avoidance. The dismissal that moves us away from the sensation, the emotion, the pain, the boundary, the fatigue, or whatever is asking for attention.
Avoidance is tricky, because at first it can feel like regulation. We swallow the tears, tighten the belly, keep the voice steady, push through the pain, and for a moment, the system feels under control. But the body still had the experience. The nervous system still received the signal, even if we refused to interpret it. The pain was still there, even if we moved around it.
Over time, the nervous system may learn that the safest option is not to feel more clearly, but to feel less. Not to move toward, but to move away. Not to soften, respond, or reorganize, but to narrow the field of possibility until life feels more manageable. And of course, that looks like coping, until it starts to look like pain, anxiety, resentment, fatigue, rigidity, or the strange feeling that we are no longer fully inhabiting our own lives.
This is where nervous system regulation becomes more concrete for me. Regulation is not about staying calm. Regulation means being able to prepare an adequate response to the world, and for that, your brain needs accurate information. It needs to know where you are, what is happening, and what options are available.
That means movement matters a lot (including the movement of stimuli through your senses). Your eyes move to gather information. Your head turns and orients you to the world. Your inner ear registers movement and gravity. Your spine, pelvis, ribs, breath, feet, gut and skin all contribute to the brain’s sense of where you are and what you can do from here.
So perhaps the question is not only, “Am I fine?” Perhaps the more useful question is: “Have I actually checked?”
Have I checked whether this position is comfortable? Have I checked whether I am holding my breath? Have I checked whether I am saying yes because I want to, or because I am afraid of what will happen if I say no? Have I checked whether the pain is asking for attention ?
Maybe you are fine. Maybe not. Maybe you are mostly fine, but your neck needs support. Maybe you can do this, but differently. Maybe you need to cry for thirty seconds and then continue. Maybe you need to change position, or ask for help, or admit that something hurt you, or simply stop pretending that discomfort does not count.
Your nervous system does not need you to be perfectly calm. It needs you to be in a more honest relationship with what is happening.
🎁 NeuroSomatic Practice of the Week
If you recognize yourself in this, this is exactly the kind of work we do in NeuroSomatic sessions. We do not force the body to relax, and we do not correct it into obedience. We slow down enough to notice what the body is already doing, what it has learned to protect, and what new information it may need in order to find another way. Book your next session now.
🧠 NeuroMinute...
There is a scientific basis for the idea that “I’m fine” may not mean the body is fine.
Research on emotional suppression shows that when people inhibit emotional expression, they may look calmer on the outside while their physiology remains activated. In other words, the face and words may say “I’m fine,” while the nervous system is still doing the work of holding, controlling, or protecting.
This is also where avoidance becomes interesting. In psychology, experiential avoidance refers to the attempt to avoid, suppress, or escape unwanted internal experiences, such as sensations, emotions, memories, thoughts, or urges. It can work in the short term, which is why we do it. The uncomfortable feeling decreases, or at least seems to move out of the way. But over time, repeated avoidance can reduce flexibility and make the avoided experience feel even more threatening when it returns.
The same logic applies to pain and movement. Chronic pain research shows that when the brain begins to predict danger around a movement, a sensation, or a body part, we may begin to avoid, brace, or protect. At first, this is a reasonable response. But when protection becomes the default, the nervous system receives less information about what is actually possible, and the body’s movement options become smaller.
This brings us back to regulation. Your nervous system does not regulate only through thoughts. It regulates through information from the body and the environment. Interoception gives the brain information about the internal body. Proprioception tells the brain where the body is in space. Vision, the vestibular system, the neck, the spine, the breath, and the skeleton all contribute to orientation.
So when we override discomfort again and again, we are not simply being “strong.” We may also be giving the brain less information to work with.
And brains with less information tend to guess.
Very often, they guess toward protection.
This is why a small pause can matter. Before saying “I’m fine,” before pushing through, before swallowing the feeling or moving around the pain, we can ask: have I actually checked?
That small act of checking gives the nervous system new information. And new information is how the nervous system learns.
Warmly,
Joana
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