The Cost Of Saying “I’m Fine”

Every Cry Sounded The Same

A shepherd boy spent his days watching sheep on a hillside above the village. The work was lonely, and the hours stretched long. One afternoon, looking for excitement, he shouted that a wolf was attacking his flock. The villagers dropped what they were doing and ran to help.

When they arrived, there was no wolf. The boy laughed.

A few days later, he did it again. Once more, the villagers rushed up the hill, worried for the sheep and worried for the boy. Again there was no wolf. Again the boy laughed. Before long, the villagers learned not to trust what they heard.

Then one evening, a wolf actually came. The sheep scattered. The boy shouted. his time his cries were real. But the villagers remembered the earlier calls. No one came. The wolf remained, and the boy learned a painful lesson: when trust is lost, truth can sound like another story.

Most of us hear that fable and think we know who the liar is. But living with fibromyalgia has made me wonder if there is another way to read it.

The Words We Learn To Say

People with chronic illness become skilled translators. We learn how to turn overwhelming experiences into acceptable conversation.

“How are you?” “Fine.” The answer arrives almost automatically. Not because we’re fine. Because the real answer is complicated.

The pain is there. The fatigue is there. The strange cognitive fog that makes simple tasks feel difficult is there. The nervous system feels like it’s operating with every alarm switched on. But explaining all of that takes energy. And sometimes we simply don’t have it.

So we learn new versions of fine. “I’m having a good pain day.” Which often means the pain is still present—just less awful than yesterday.

“I’m pretending to feel fine so I can cope better.” Which means we’re trying not to think about how much effort today requires.

“I don’t feel well, but explaining it tires me.” Which may be the most honest statement of all.

Over time, these small adjustments become habits. We stop telling the whole truth, not because we’re dishonest, but because survival requires efficiency.

The Cost Of Being Believed

The difficulty is that eventually everyone starts believing the edited version. Friends hear fine. Family hears fine. Coworkers hear fine. Sometimes even we begin hearing fine. Then a flare arrives. The wolf steps onto the hillside.

Suddenly the fatigue is crushing. The pain is louder. The brain fog makes conversations disappear halfway through a sentence. Now we need people to understand. Now we need help. Now we need support.
But those around us have spent years hearing that everything was manageable.

The truth hasn’t changed. Only the volume has. And yet it can feel as though we are trying to convince people of something entirely new. Many people with fibromyalgia know this experience intimately. The illness itself is difficult enough. The disbelief often hurts just as much.

Why Invisible Doesn’t Mean Imaginary

Part of the problem is that fibromyalgia remains invisible. There is no cast to sign. No dramatic scan. No blood test that lights up with a clear answer. To someone looking from the outside, we may appear perfectly healthy.

Yet modern research increasingly points toward differences in how the nervous system processes signals. Pain messages become amplified. Sensory input becomes louder. Fatigue becomes more profound. This process is often called central sensitization.

Think of it like a smoke detector that becomes too sensitive. The detector isn’t broken because it’s making noise. It’s making noise because the system is reacting more strongly than it should. The pain is real. The exhaustion is real. The cognitive struggles are real.

The fact that they cannot always be seen does not make them less true.

You Were Never Trying To Fool Anyone

There is something important the old fable doesn’t account for. Most people with chronic illness are not trying to deceive others. They’re trying to protect them. Protect them from worry. Protect them from long explanations. Protect them from the discomfort of hearing that someone they care about is struggling.

Sometimes we’re protecting ourselves too. If we say fine, maybe we can get through the grocery store. If we say fine, maybe we can finish the appointment. If we say fine, maybe we can avoid another conversation where we feel questioned or misunderstood.

Those choices make sense. They are not failures. They are adaptations. The problem is not that you learned to cope this way. The problem is that the world often mistakes coping for wellness.

The Truth That Deserves To Be Heard

Perhaps the lesson of this fable is not that we should stop saying fine. Perhaps it is that we deserve places where we don’t have to.

Places where the full answer is welcome. Places where fatigue doesn’t need defending. Places where pain doesn’t require proof. Places where “I’m struggling today” is received with the same trust as “I’m doing well.”

Because unlike the shepherd boy, most people with fibromyalgia are not inventing wolves. They’ve simply spent years learning how to speak quietly about them.

And sometimes healing begins with finding one person—or even just ourselves—who is willing to listen when we finally tell the truth.