Gratitude
How Are You? It's a Deceptively Hard Question
A Personal Perspective: An honest answer means holding both struggle and joy.
Updated February 6, 2025 Reviewed by Abigail Fagan
Key points
- Acknowledge what’s hard, but don’t let it blot out the good.
- Embrace stubborn gladness—because life is always more than just one thing.
- Presence—movement, nature, and community—widens our aperture.
It’s such a deceptively simple question.
How are you?
We hear it dozens of times a day and often answer on autopilot: Fine. Good. Can’t complain. Or maybe we offer a knowing sigh alluding to the latest news. But the more I think about the question, the more complicated it seems.
How am I?
Lately, my answer changes by the minute. Some moments, I feel wonderful—grateful for the people in my life, for the resilience I’ve built, for the small joys that still find me. Other times, I feel the weight of uncertainty, fear, and grief.
Take my job, for example. For 15 years, working in the federal government has given me meaning, purpose, and identity—I’m the bureaucracy guy in my friend group. Now, it feels like it’s slipping away. The uncertainty is hard. Will I still have a job? What happens to my colleagues? To the work we’ve poured our lives into? To the people we serve?
And yet—despite all that—I also feel something else: gratitude. Gratitude for my colleagues, for the sense of purpose we’ve shared, and knowing that even now we show up to serve, however unseen that effort may be. And outside of work, my life is full of connection. A thriving meditation community. Friends who check in on me. A mostly healthy body.
So, how am I? I’m frustrated. I’m tired. I’m grateful. I’m alive. And maybe you feel that way, too.
Both Things Can Be True
The question How are you? boils down to attention.
We could start with the Big Bang and give a lengthy treatise on every aspect of our life. But more often than not, we let one thing–existential work stress, a breakup, or our health–take center stage.
And sometimes, that’s just where we are. But as a favorite meditation teacher says, suffering is not the end of the story. Yes, I feel uncared for at work. And also, my dog, Walnut, still looks at me like I’m the best person in the world—second only to squirrels. Yes, the future feels uncertain. And also, I had a mighty laugh when someone dropped F-bombs in a mindfulness session this weekend.
“And also” is a shift in attention—a way to acknowledge what’s hard without letting it eclipse what’s good, a way to embody that two things can be true.
Love and Letting Go
Nowhere is this more evident than in love. I’m recently out of a relationship, and recently met up with my ex for the first time. We talked like old times, and I felt so much love, so much tenderness. It was beautiful. And it was painful.
Because love—at least, the way we needed it to work—wasn’t enough. And yet, what we had was real. The joy of connection, her endless love for my dog, the care we still share. When we parted, we almost instinctively kissed—the perfect, ambivalent end.
Maybe you’ve felt it too—that strange mix of heartbreak and love, grief and gratitude, endings and beginnings, exhaustion and renewed purpose.
Stubborn Gladness in a Difficult Moment
In his beautiful poem, A Brief for the Defense, Jack Gilbert calls for stubborn gladness—choosing to love the world anyway. Not as denial, but as defiance.
This feels especially urgent right now. The political moment is heavy—uncertainty in government, deep social division, real fear for many. It’s easy to let it consume everything, to feel like joy is irrelevant or even irresponsible.
If we let despair take over, we give it power. We let it win. As Gilbert writes, “To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.”
So, how do we hold both—the struggle and the joy, the grief and the gratitude—so that when we’re asked, How are you?, we have a fuller answer?
Strategies for Holding Both
1. Set time limits for dwelling on the hard things.
When I talk to friends about stress, I try to keep it contained—“Let’s talk about this for 10 minutes, then shift to something else.” I do the same with my own thoughts. Feel it fully, then move on.
So the third time you’re asked How are you?, you might try focusing on something else. The book you’re loving, the perfect cup of coffee, or the friend you had a catch-up with. Not to ignore the hard things, but to remind yourself they aren’t the only things.
2. Make space for gratitude—even for small stuff.
Some days, “I’m grateful for dogs” is enough. Other days, it’s more expansive: the people in my life, a kind stranger, or a colleague’s care. After nearly four years of daily gratitude practice with a friend—1,000+ gratitudes—I’ve noticed a shift. The more I remember the good, the easier it is to see. When someone asks How are you?, the hard stuff remains, but you might find more joy, too.
3. Do things that pull you into the present.
A global free fitness community I’m a part of called November Project pulls me out of my own head. It’s more than a workout—it’s about showing up, sweating, and cheering each other on.
Maybe you’ve felt it too—in a running group, dancing, a book club, or a regular coffee date with a friend. Maybe nature reminds you the world keeps turning, or you lose yourself in pottery for hours. Whatever it is, grounding yourself in the now can help you see beyond the rumination.
How Am I? And How Are You?
And that brings me back to the question du jour: How am I?
I’m well, actually.
Not because life is perfect—it’s far from it. But because I’m alive. Not just getting through the days, but feeling them—the joy and the heartbreak. Because I’m not numb and the pain means I care. Because I’m not alone in my grief or my commitment to making things better.
So maybe today, when someone inevitably asks How are you?, take a moment longer before responding. Consider the struggle and the small miracles. Maybe Fine or Hanging in there is all you can muster. But maybe you can see beyond the breakup, the traffic jam, or the headlines about our institutions—and notice something else, too.
A song that made you smile. A child’s goofy grin. The floof of a pet. That someone let you merge in traffic. That iguanas exist. That even in loss and uncertainty, we can turn toward each other—with kindness, action, hope, and, perhaps, with stubborn gladness.