I'm Fine* (*Unless You Ask Again, Then I Might Cry or Bite You)
Let’s talk about the biggest lie people tell themselves and everyone around them:
“I’m fine.”
I said it today, actually. A friend asked if I was feeling any better, and despite the migraine that felt like it was splitting my skull in half, what came out of my mouth was: "Yeah, I'm fine." Because that's the script. That's the mask. You’ve probably said it today. Hell, you might’ve said it while staring at your inbox like it owes you child support, or while picking up dog food at Target with tears in your eyes and a fake smile for the cashier.
“Fine” is the most socially acceptable way to say, “Everything is on fire, but I’m too tired or ashamed to say it out loud.”
And if you were ever a Nirvana fan (or just someone who survived the 90s), you might remember what they said “FINE” really stands for:
Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional.
Sounds about right.
This is what active crisis looks like. Not the silent, numb kind. The loud, messy, ragey, panic-simmering-under-your-skin kind. The kind where your nervous system is running on jet fuel and everyone expects you to just answer emails and keep your cool.
You’re overwhelmed, overstimulated, over-committed, and under-supported—and the world expects you to keep showing up like none of it’s happening.
This isn’t overreacting. It’s not being dramatic. It’s your body going DEFCON 1. And no, you’re not crazy. You’re just in a goddamn fire.
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This Is Fight or Flight (or Fawn or Freeze... Pick Your Poison)
What you’re feeling is your sympathetic nervous system in full takeover mode. That’s the part of your body wired to sniff out danger, slam the gas pedal, and get you the hell out of dodge before your conscious brain even wakes up.
Adrenaline’s pumping. Cortisol’s flooding your system. Your thoughts are racing, your chest is tight, your jaw’s locked, and every sound feels like a gunshot. You’re hyper-aware, hyper-reactive, and hyper-fucking-exhausted.
This is survival mode. Not vibes. Not overthinking. Not being “sensitive.”
And yeah—this ties right back to what we broke down in the gut response blog. That post laid out how your body decides you’re not safe before you ever consciously realize it. This is that, but louder, faster, and with more swearing.
Sometimes it shows up as rage or panic. Other times? It’s over-functioning: taking care of everyone else so you don’t have to deal with your own internal shitstorm. Over-controlling. Over-helping. People-pleasing like your life depends on it—because deep down, your nervous system thinks it actually does.
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Signs You’re Not Okay (Even If You’re Still Smiling):
You feel like your skin is too tight and your soul’s about to explode.
Every little thing makes you want to punch a wall or crawl into one.
You don’t know what you need—you just know it’s not this.
You’re apologizing for everything or ghosting everyone.
You can’t sleep. Or eat. Or sit still. Or slow down.
Your stomach’s a mess, your chest is tight, your brain is stuck on fast-forward.
You’re solving everyone else’s problems just to avoid sitting with your own.
You bounce between "I got this" and "I'm about to lose my shit" every 30 minutes.
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What People See: Anger. Drama. Moodiness. Overreaction.
What They Don’t See:
That you’re so burned out you feel like a ghost in your own body.
That your brain is running disaster simulations 24/7.
That your words shut down because your speech center goes offline (Lanius et al., 2010).
That your heart is pounding and your system is bracing for something that never comes.
That you're scared you're going to snap, cry, or completely unravel at the worst possible time.
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Here’s What Can Actually Help (Even If It Feels Dumb)
Slow. The. Fuck. Down. Breathe—six times per minute. Long exhale. Your vagus nerve needs to know you’re not in a war zone (Porges, 2011).
Move. Stomp, shake, punch a pillow, do laps around your kitchen. Complete the stress cycle (Levine, 1997).
Cold water. Ice cubes, frozen veggies to the chest, cold splash to the face—reset your nervous system, caveman style.
Say what your body feels. Not your thoughts. “My throat’s tight.” “My chest feels heavy.” It’s weird. Do it anyway.
Find one safe thing. A person, a dog, a blanket. Something that doesn't need anything from you.
Butterfly Taps. Arms crossed, tap back and forth. It’s EMDR’s weird cousin, and it works.
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Quick + Dirty Nervous System Reset (When You’re Mid-Freakthefuckout):
STOP and NAME IT. Out loud. “I’m activated.” “I’m in fight mode.” Awareness turns the volume down.
TOUCH + PRESSURE. Sit your ass down. Plant your feet. Squeeze your hands. Let your body know it exists.
BREATH: 4-6-8. In for 4, hold for 6, out for 8. It’s not magic—it’s science.
COLD SHOCK. Ice cube. Cold water. Frozen peas to the neck. This is a reset button. Hit it.
BUTTERFLY TAPS. Again. Yes, it looks dumb. Do it anyway.
NOISE OFF. Silence your phone. Lower the lights. Cancel the fucking noise.
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You’re Not Overreacting. You’re Overloaded.
This is your nervous system lighting the whole house up to keep you safe from a threat that may not even be there anymore.
You don’t need more hustle. You don’t need another goddamn affirmation. You need space. You need breath. You need to feel like you’re not the only one losing it.
You’re not crazy. You’re activated. And you don’t have to stay there.
-Matt
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Cited Sources (APA Style):
Lanius, R. A., Bluhm, R., Frewen, P. A., & Williamson, P. C. (2010). Restoring large-scale brain networks in PTSD and related disorders: A proposal for neuroscientifically-informed treatment interventions. European Journal of Psychotraumatology, 1(1), 1–13. https://doi.org/10.3402/ejpt.v1i0.5555
Levine, P. A. (1997). Waking the tiger: Healing trauma. North Atlantic Books.
Porges, S. W. (2011). The polyvagal theory: Neurophysiological foundations of emotions, attachment, communication, and self-regulation. Norton.