Is It Okay to Feel Okay Right Now?

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Last week, someone asked how I was doing, and for once, I didn’t hedge. I replied, “I’m actually doing well,” and I meant it.

I’ve been getting eight hours of sleep (a minor miracle in and of itself), feeling clear-headed in the mornings, and even managing to end most days with some energy left over. My current projects feel meaningful instead of overwhelming, my son texted from college with a funny meme instead of a crisis, and fall has settled into that rare balance between crisp and colorful. Life, at least in this moment, feels steady, and honestly, just a little bit good.

Almost before the words left my mouth, however, I felt the tug of guilt that whispers, “How dare you be okay right now?” Is it even right for me to admit feeling steady while others are struggling to find their balance? I have dear friends navigating fresh grief and colleagues who are unraveling under the weight of too many demands. Across the world, the headlines are heartbreaking, and yet, here I am sitting in a rare moment of calm, daring to say out loud that I’m okay.

In a world that feels increasingly fractured and fatigued, feeling alright can almost seem like an act of insensitivity. A part of me always feels the need to downplay it by quickly adding a sheepish, “I mean, as well as anyone can be in a world on fire,” as if being okay requires an immediate qualifier.

The Quiet Taboo of Being Fine

Lately, it seems like everyone is talking about quiet cracking, the slow unraveling so many of us experience beneath the weight of the world, trying to maintain outward performance while managing deep internal distress (McQuaid, 2025). But I can’t help wondering if another tide is also quietly rising: quiet okayness.

With this term, I am referring to the feeling of steadiness even when the world feels uncertain. It is not exuberant happiness or forced positivity, but a calm, quiet steadiness amid change; a simple awareness that, even for a fleeting moment, you are okay, and that is not denial but resilience in motion.

We’ve learned to name our anxiety, acknowledge burnout, and speak openly about grief. In many ways, it has been a healthy cultural shift to create space for all the stress that lived unspoken for so long. Somewhere along the way, though, calm started to feel suspicious, and steadiness began to look like privilege.

It’s not that we envy pain, but we’ve built a culture where struggle has become the primary language of belonging. When someone admits, “I’m barely hanging on,” we know exactly how to respond with offers of empathy, understanding, and solidarity. But when someone says, “Honestly, I’m doing alright,” the conversation often stumbles.

When we feel okay, we tend to lower our voices and soften the edges of our well-being, so it doesn’t sound insensitive. Many of us have absorbed the message that feeling okay while the world feels broken is a kind of moral oversight, as if quiet cracking is acceptable, but quiet okayness needs to be explained.

The Comparison Trap and Emotional Modesty

Part of this hesitation is shaped by emotional comparison. If someone I love is struggling with chronic illness or deep personal loss, how can I possibly talk about the joy I felt on my morning walk? If the news is flooded with trauma, who am I to share about my quiet weekend spent reading?

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Psychologists describe this as upward emotional comparison, a concept rooted in Festinger’s (1954) social comparison theory and expanded by later researchers (Wills, 1981) to explain how we evaluate our emotions and experiences against those of others. When the people around us are suffering, our own steadiness can feel almost indecent, as if we’ve broken an unspoken rule of empathy. We begin to believe that to deserve well-being, we must have suffered for it or at least justify it.

Our culture of performance reinforces this belief, where online, vulnerability often feels more shareable than stability. Posting about being okay, or heaven forbid, about feeling good, can feel like a humblebrag in a world calibrated for crisis.

But what if okayness itself is a hard-earned emotional state?

Okay Doesn’t Mean Unaware

Being okay doesn’t mean we have tuned out the world or stopped caring. In fact, I would argue the opposite. Sometimes it takes real effort to remain grounded while staying present to all that is unfolding around us. It is not indifference, but rather it’s an intentional choice to keep showing up to life without falling apart every time the headlines refresh.

Psychologist Barbara Fredrickson’s broaden-and-build theory (2001) suggests that positive emotions aren’t a luxury but important ingredients in our lives that expand our capacity to think clearly, connect with others, and recover from stress. In this sense, quiet okayness isn’t about denial; it’s about regulation. Our calm, steady moments help us stay resourced enough to face what’s hard.

I think of it like emotional buoyancy. The waves still come as we feel the pull of grief, anger, helplessness, but we have found a rhythm that lets us rise again. That doesn’t make us better than anyone else, and it definitely doesn’t mean we’ve figured life out. It just means that, in this particular moment, we are managing to stay afloat. And that is not something to apologize for.

In fact, our okayness might be the very thing that helps us support others. When we are not constantly consumed by chaos, we can show up more fully for the people who are in a less-than-steady state.

A Few Ways I’m Practicing Quiet Okayness

Lately, I’ve been learning to hold my okayness with more care. I no longer feel the urge to explain it away or make it smaller. If peace finds me, I let it linger, allowing calm to stay rather than waiting for it to fade. When someone asks how I am and I truly feel okay, I answer honestly, without apology or hesitation. I keep reminding myself that my steadiness does not take away from someone else’s struggle. Both can exist together, as joy and sorrow rarely travel alone and often walk side by side.

What this looks like in practice:

• I speak truthfully. When I am asked how I am, I answer with sincerity. If I feel joy or ease, I allow it without minimizing.
• I honor the middle ground. Wellness does not need to be exuberant to be real. Feeling quietly steady is still worth naming.
• I practice gratitude without guilt. Calm moments are not a betrayal of reality; they are reminders that balance is possible.
• I offer calm when I can. When I have access to a sense of my own internal peace, I try to share it with others who may be feeling otherwise through presence, listening, and kindness.

Choosing Not to Shrink

In a world that often feels like it is unraveling, okayness is not selfish; it is a quiet form of strength. When life feels heavy for so many, feeling okay is not something to conceal; it is something to acknowledge and honor.

Each time we speak our steadiness out loud, we make space for others to do the same. Maybe that is how okayness spreads, quietly, out loud.