The Day “Fine” Stopped Meaning Fine

“I’d like to see my doctor today,” I said, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest. “I’ve been having chest pain on and off since I woke up. I don’t think it’s a heart attack… at least not at the moment.” Permission To, Chapter 1

---

I was at work when I made that call, downplaying my symptoms and the fear that accompanied them. I softened my words, the way I had learned to soften everything that might inconvenience someone else. The way I had learned to present myself as fine.

When my boss asked what was going on and why I was at the office instead of the hospital, I told him I wanted to be around people. “Just in case…” I wasn’t able to finish the thought. Just in case I collapsed. Just in case the chest pain meant something more serious than I was willing to say out loud. I wanted someone to be there if it happened. To take charge. To call an ambulance. To make sure I didn’t end up dying alone at home if my body gave out.

That part was true. But it still wasn’t the whole truth.

I didn’t know how to say that I’d been overwhelmed for a long time. I didn’t know how to put words to how much work had taken over, how stretched thin I already was, or how close to the edge I was living. But most of all, I didn’t know how to ask for help before things became unmanageable.

So instead, I showed it.

I kept showing up to work every day. I kept functioning. I carried everything openly, hoping that eventually someone would see how much weight I was under and step in without me having to ask. That morning, with the chest pain, I knew people would finally see it. The stress. The exhaustion. The cost of pretending I was fine.

I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. Expecting others to read what I couldn’t say was unfair. It wasn’t their responsibility to interpret my distress or to intervene on my behalf.

When the receptionist came back on the line after consulting with the doctors at the clinic and suggested I head to the ER, the fear finally broke through. Tears followed. My body shook. And still, while I waited to be taken to the hospital, I fixed the office printer and took work calls.

That sentence still sounds absurd when I write it. Chest pain serious enough to warrant the ER, and I was bent over a machine, adjusting wires, talking to tech support. No one had asked me to. I did it because I was the one who knew how to fix it. Because I didn’t want to disrupt anyone else’s day. Because pausing had stopped feeling like an option.

That was the moment “fine” truly cracked.

It wasn’t that I didn’t understand the seriousness of what was happening. I did. I could even see the absurdity of my behaviour as it was happening. But seeing it didn’t stop the reflex. The doing. The fixing. The proving.

This wasn’t a sudden collapse. It was the result of many subtle signs I had already learned to live with. Constant tension. A body that never fully rested. The inability to slow down without guilt. The habit of pushing through discomfort and calling it strength. Over time, those signals stopped registering as warnings and started feeling normal.

I hadn’t listened to them.

So when my body finally raised its voice, it had to scream.

When the tests came back clear and the doctor said it was stress, relief didn’t come. What settled in instead was the realization that something had been wrong long before that day. That “fine” had stopped meaning fine well before chest pain forced me to pay attention. That I had normalized warning signs until my body had no other way to reach me.

If this resonates, you’re not alone. Many early signs don’t announce themselves loudly. They hide inside competence. Inside reliability. Inside how easily we keep going.

Where in your life might “fine” be doing too much work?

Your voice belongs here. This space is for listening, together.