ITS OKAY TO NOT BE OKAY

 

This moment opens with a truth from Brene Brown that so many of us have carried in our bones:

“Being perfect isn’t about self, not really, it is about how people see you, getting them to accept you. And until they accept you, or your work as perfect, you’ll forever feel worthless.”

I stumbled on this quote after a bruising, deeply human experience. Why does perfectionism so often show up in our hardest moments? Because each of us has wrestled with self-doubt, with the urge to mask our cracks and present only a flawless image. In that tension, the shadow voices of our subconscious can whisper that we’re never enough.

This chapter of my journey began when I was diagnosed with stage three cancer. In that moment, I shifted from mere survival to envisioning an “end state”—not an ending of life, but a goal of thriving in body, mind, heart, and soul. I surrendered the fight-or-flight of simply making it through, trading it for a fierce commitment to a better state of being.

Chemotherapy and radiation tested every layer of who I am. From nausea to fatigue, from moments of quiet fear to flashes of hope, my whole self was under trial. I celebrated each small victory—every regained ounce of strength—and pressed on with unwavering hope. But when neuropathy crept into my hands and feet, my physical comfort dimmed and my spirit grew tired. Still, I masked the exhaustion because my thirteen-year-old daughter needed her mother to show up as a warrior, even on the hardest days.

This revelation emerged from a week of turbulence that shattered my facade and inaugurated my healing. The relentless act of pretending weighed heavy until it could no longer hold. Suddenly, I stood face to face with my triggers and life demons—alone, afraid, and wounded. In that moment, I descended into the valley of depression, the place of not being okay, and realized it was time to admit my truth.

Life had dealt me a harsh hand, and I had learned to tough it out in silence—never asking for help, never sharing my burden. I feared judgment and feared that once I wandered down that dark road of depression, I would never return. I knew this journey too well from past outpatient and inpatient treatments, yet here I was again, at the crossroads of honesty and healing.

This time, I fell silent. I stopped speaking up because my words felt invisible—my value unacknowledged. My voice, once my compass, felt stifled, and in that quiet, I lost sight of my own worth.

Speaking Up When You Aren’t OK

Since that moment, I have learned so much about myself and my life journey.

In truth, I am uncertain how to express this experience. As I wander across life’s canvas, I gather fragments of struggles and challenges—like a tree bending in a storm, its branches trembling into tender tendrils at the mercy of wind and rain.

It is my hope that these shared words will open the door to vulnerability and reveal my imperfect grapples with life. We’ve been socialized to believe that vulnerability equals weakness. This is not true.

Throughout my lifetime I have challenged the belief that vulnerability equals weakness. I’ve come to see that to be authentically true to ourselves, we must first recognize our own truths. Susceptibility is not a flaw but a marker of deep self-belonging.

So instead of tentatively dipping my toe into the water, I’m diving straight into the deep end. I will immerse myself, soulfully, in the waters of vulnerability, truth, and honesty. This plunge is my act of courage—a declaration that openness can wash away the barriers between my heart and the world.

Have you ever realized you’ve unintentionally welcomed a lie into your life? In my case, coping became masking—pretending everything was fine while I was roiling with anger and fear. During my cancer treatments, I hid behind a façade of calm even as my heart felt lost in the shadows of a life unlived.

The Breaking Point, When Pretending Isn’t Enough

Facing a serious illness, my days narrowed to a relentless scramble of treatments and appointments—a flash flood tearing across rock. Every moment revolved around the next lifesaving intervention—I clung to a single aim: finish treatment, ring the victory bell, and shut out everything else.

My pinpoint vision carried me forward, but the flood of therapies only gathered strength. Just when I thought I’d reached an endpoint, I discovered another stretch of rapids to navigate.  When the searing pain chipped away at my quality of life, leaving me spiritually weary even then I marched on.

Before one infusion meant to ease neuropathy, I cracked under the weight of tears and fear. In that moment, I realized I didn’t want another treatment—anything—to touch my fragile sense of self. I shoved that truth deep inside, masking my dread with a vow to stay strong. More doctors, more procedures, more emotional contortions—yet still I hushed my voice, terrified of judgment or becoming a burden.

A tumultuous week became the catalyst for revelation. All my pretending—acting as if life was fine—finally shattered. There I stood, face to face with my triggers and demons: alone, afraid, and drowning in depression. In that valley of not-being-okay, I made a solemn promise to myself. It was time to speak the truth: I was not okay.

I wore the armor of a warrior woman because my thirteen-year-old daughter depended on me to show up—no matter how daunting the task. But this silent coping came at a price. A breakdown in expressing my needs forced me to my knees, and in that flash I saw memories of every time I chose silence to avoid arguing or abuse. I’d long appeased others just to make the pain stop, and in doing so, I buried my own worth beneath the weight of unspoken hurts.

Reckoning with Programmed Behaviors

Those rehearsed, programmed behaviors—the inner voice that tells you to “keep it together”—haunted me in my darkest hour. It was time to face those self-imposed scripts with compassion rather than judgement. I escaped into my car, the road stretching out before me, searching for peace, for hope, and for the space to examine what was really happening inside.

As the storm of that week began to settle, I realized I had neglected the most important person in my life: myself. Cancer had defined my world for over a year, and in focusing entirely on treatments, I’d forgotten how to tend to my own heart. Worse still, a shadow of old fear drifted back in—fear of slipping into depression, a place I’d barely survived fifteen years before. I knew I needed help before hope vanished entirely.

The Divine Message and Opening Up

In my darkest moment, a friend’s unexpected message arrived like a beam of light. She had no idea what I was enduring, yet her words awakened me to my own suffering. For the first time, I felt safe enough to admit: I was not having a good day. I was not okay. That simple confession became the lifeline I needed.

Owning Vulnerability and the Cost of Silence

The follow-up messages held no judgement—only compassion. In those exchanges, I owned the full scope of my masking and pretenses. I realized how deeply I’d feared admitting depression, convinced that others would see me as weak or unworthy. But in naming my truth, I reclaimed my voice and released the power of hidden shame”

The Tragedy of Staying Silent

Here’s a truth we cannot ignore: our greatest loss is the moments we stay silent. When courage fails to speak, we’re not just letting others down—we’re abandoning ourselves. We owe it to our own hearts to break the silence. Our lives are worthy of being heard.

Fear, Silence, and Survival Mode

I spent years conditioned by past wounds—express my pain, get silenced, or worse. Fear and silence became my automatic response. Every flashback to bullying or abuse drove me to swallow my truth just to survive. But survival mode isn’t living; it’s a dull echo of the person we’re meant to be.

From Survival to Thriving

Survival may keep us alive, but it steals our aliveness. In my journey, I reached a turning point: I had to learn to live again. I practiced trusting my own voice, speaking up with kindness, and embracing compassion for myself. Only then could I step out of survival mode and begin to truly thrive.

What’s one small victory you’ve achieved just by surviving—and how can you celebrate it today?
Pause. Reflect. Honor your resilience.

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