The Heaviness of Being Okay

“I’m okay.”

That’s what I say

when the world feels too heavy

to reveal what we conceal.

I keep the trauma tucked in tight,

keep the good vibes high —

smile bright.

It’s the answer that keeps

the room at ease,

lets the conversation breathe.

But my thoughts don’t clock out

when the shift ends.

They echo in the quiet,

bend when the road bends.

I know I should take this mask off,

let it fall from my face —

but grace can’t seem to meet me

in this hiding place.

Honesty feels dangerous.

Like if I let it in,

it might host a beast

beneath my skin.

And I don’t know

if men are allowed

to sink —

to feel —

without a three-step plan

to fix it,

to heal.

No chart.

No program.

No victory claim.

Just the subtle stare of shame,

like you fumbled the script

of the life game.

So I say, “I’m okay.”

Because “okay”

keeps the truth at bay.

Keeps the ache

from having its say.

And some days

that feels safer

than being real.