The "How Are You?" Gauntlet
“How are you?”
I’ve been asked that question a thousand times since they died.
And I hate it more every single time.
Not because people don’t care. But because they do. And they expect an answer.
“How are you?”
What am I supposed to say to that?
The truth? That I’m barely surviving? That I cried in my car this morning? That I can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t think straight? That every single day feels impossible and I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this?
Yeah. That’ll go over well.
So, I lie.
“I’m okay.” “Hanging in there.” “Getting through it.” “Day by day, you know?”
And they nod. Relieved. Because my fake answer lets them off the hook.
They asked. I answered. Everyone can move on now.
But I’m screaming inside.
Because I’m not okay. I’m not hanging in there. I’m falling apart and no one actually wants to hear about it.
“How are you?”
It’s not really a question. It’s a social ritual. A polite greeting. A box to check.
And I’m expected to play along. To give the right answer. To make them comfortable.
Even though I’m the one who’s drowning.
Some days I want to answer honestly just to see what happens.
“How are you?”
“Terrible. I’m barely functioning. I don’t know how to keep living without them. I’m angry and exhausted and so damn tired of pretending I’m fine.”
But I don’t. Because that’s not what they’re asking for.
They’re asking for reassurance. For permission to stop worrying. For confirmation that I’m handling it and they don’t need to do anything.
And I give it to them. Because it’s easier than the alternative.
But it’s exhausting.
Every “How are you?” feels like a test. A performance. A reminder that I’m supposed to be getting better by now.
And when I’m not? When I’m still struggling months later? Years later?
The question changes.
“How are you?” becomes “Are you still...?”
Like my grief has an expiration date. Like I should be over it by now.
So, I keep lying.
“I’m okay.”
Because the truth is too heavy. Too messy. Too much for casual conversation.
And I’m tired of being the person who makes things uncomfortable.
So, I smile. I nod. I say I’m fine.
And I walk away feeling more alone than I did before they asked.
“How are you?”
I don’t know anymore.
And honestly? I don’t think you really want to know.