The least complicated question of polite social discourse no longer feels that way.
“How are you?”
For most of my life, I’d typically drop a chirpy, chipper, “Fine!” and keep on going. Sometimes it would be, “Doing well, hope you are!”
Often when I said I was fine, I was. Even when I wasn’t, the people in my life who needed to know that I wasn’t usually already did, because they were right alongside me in whatever the mess was.
When others inquired, however, some combination of discretion, disconnect or disinterest on my part meant they received an answer from my emotional trinket drawer, not the spaces where more precious feelings and experiences were secured.
But to describe myself as “fine” now, even to casual acquaintances, would be a lie. I’m not; people and causes I care deeply about are not. And that has prompted me to stop giving an answer that might normalize this moment.
I am not going to decorate our brokenness with a blithe assurance and superficial smile. I’ve stopped waving cheerful beads to distract others from pain, oppression and harm.
What do I say these days that feels true? “I am doing as well as the world will allow.”
That statement is honest, and I say it to anyone who inquires. It names that the world needs a lot right now, and many are stepping up in ways that put them physically in danger while also draining them emotionally and spiritually.
We are watching in real time as our siblings are dehumanized, punished and even disappeared over their embodied existence, their willingness to speak truthfully, or what is presumed of their origins. Meanwhile, democracy is increasingly monetized, evidence-based science is continuously discarded, and our shared history is being stripped of facts. Some among us no longer trust their own eyes, ears or sense of reason because they have been told not to.
Saying “I am doing as well as the world will allow” acknowledges the truth that my privileges have shielded me from the worst of what is being inflicted on our more vulnerable siblings. It recognizes that, even with those privileges, I am a Black woman with family and friends whose identities put us in spaces of increasing precarity.
My prayers were among the first signs that my anguish was no longer containable. Usually neat and orderly, my words as I fell asleep each night (if I fell asleep that night) and when I woke became fragmented and messy.
My deepest conversations with God were like a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle accidentally spilled across the floor — some tiny bits piled on top of each other, some scattered to the corners to be excavated later. My world was broken into related but disconnected shards of anxiety. Where even to begin? How to prioritize my requests to God when each day brings fresh horror?
Previously, in times of individual trial or even a deeply hard season, my conversations with God had felt clear, and what I’d hoped for was self-evident. Now it felt like a laundry list of despair, with me circling back to some things to layer on additional lament before I’d even gotten to others.
I also wanted to remember to give thanks for joys and celebrations, which are also real and concrete and worthy of praise. New babies. Renewed relationships. Restored health. All of these elements formed chaotic prayers.
At some point, I was reminded that God already knew those things, understood what was on my heart, and didn’t think I didn’t care when I missed one crisis while focused on another. God got that I was overwhelmed and did not require a perfect prayer to understand me.
Likewise, those who have asked me how I am doing are understanding when I respond. Initially they may pause and process. Likely they weren’t anticipating a reminder of this moment’s collective struggle.
No one has pushed back or questioned my more open-ended response. Most nod or agree that they are in a similar state. In faith-based settings, there seems to be a particular willingness to sit briefly in a space of holistic worry.
“I’m going to borrow that,” more than one person has responded. “There is no trademark on angst,” I reply. As with the realization that God gets me, it helps to know that they get me too.
The “common human ties that bind us together,” as the Rev. Dr. Pauli Murray named them, feel so very frayed. Surrendering polite chitchat for an honest acknowledgment of that has felt steadying in a way — releasing pretense and denial for a candid sliver of grief.
It doesn’t fix anything, but it feels honest in a world where truth is increasingly subverted. My conversation partners and I are not allowed to proceed comfortably as if life around us carries on uninterrupted. Instead, we sit together in the difficulty of our moment.
