“How are you?”

The question is seemingly so simple and benign. So often it is just a polite, meaningless pleasantry. Just as often, those who answer the question would never think to respond with anything other than the implicitly expected “I’m fine” or “Good. How are you?” Even if everything wasn’t fine.

Unfortunately, for people struggling with overwhelming grief, the simple phrase, “How are you?” reinforces a deep isolation from the rest of society.

For someone who has recently lost a loved one, it is a silent signpost marking the moment they must take two simultaneous paths. The path visible to the outside world puts on a show that everything is “okay.” The veiled, lonely path is created when society quickly tires of their ongoing pain.

I spoke with a mother who had lost her son a short time before. She talked about the incredible support she received from her family, religion, and friends. It helped her handle her overwhelming grief. But more recently, she sensed their supportive tone was beginning to change when they asked, “How are you?” She said the question was being asked in a way that implied they were ready for her response to return to the standard, “I’m fine.” They were ready for her to move on with her life.

It reminded me of my return to work a month after the death of my daughter. While some people welcome the return to work in an effort to distract themselves from the pain, I returned only because I needed the income. The first day back I made a beeline to my desk, desperately avoiding eye contact with everyone.

I dreaded the inevitable question, “How are you?”

And yet, it came. Many people did their best to avoid me just as I avoided them. But some stopped by my desk to offer their condolences and ask how I was. If I was being honest with them, my response may have sounded something like this:

How am I? I’m completely devastated. The skin around my eyes is raw and hurts from crying so much. Yes – even a month after her death. And there’s no sign of it stopping any time soon.

I’m completely exhausted – physically and emotionally. It took all my energy just to get out of bed this morning. It seemed almost impossible to get in the shower, dress, and drive to work. On the drive it was hard to see through my tears. Several times I felt like steering my car off the road and into a telephone pole, but thankfully I didn’t.

In addition to a constant feeling of pain and nausea in my stomach, I’m angry when I look around and see that everything is “business as usual” around here. I can’t understand how the world continues to march on without my daughter in it. The sound of laughter makes me want to scream. How could anyone be happy right now?

I don’t care at all about my job or what needs to be done. But seeing as how I need the money, I’m just going to put my head down and immerse myself in work. Hopefully it will mean that for a few hours today I’ll be distracted from the overwhelming pain I feel. Yet every time someone comes up to ask me how I am, I’ll be dragged back to into reality and the nightmare I find myself in.

So, while I appreciate that you care, I’d rather you not ask. Maybe you could just tell me you’re sorry, or even give me a silent hug…and then walk away. I simply don’t have the energy right now to pretend that I’m fine.

But, of course, I wasn’t honest. My answer depended on how the question was worded.

If they asked, “How are you?” I replied, “Fine.” If they asked, “How are you doing?” I answered “I’m doing.” Both were spoken in a flat tone of voice that implied I was not fine. It was intended to discourage them from continuing the conversation. This may sound mean, but it took a lot of energy to keep myself from bursting into tears and telling them how I really was.

Because if I really was “fine,” what would that say about how I felt about my daughter? In my mind, “fine” implied that somehow it was okay that my daughter died. It made me feel guilty and angry at the same time.

Over time, answering that question got easier and felt less of a betrayal to my daughter.

Eventually, I could answer “I’m fine” or even “I’m good” and truly mean it. But it took time and a lot of work. It took going to support groups where I could give an honest answer of how I was doing and no one would try to stop me. Everyone there would understand and encourage me to let it out.

Over the years, I learned how to acknowledge and express my grief when I need to. Because when you keep it inside, it simmers and grows. I’ve learned to accept that I have both good and bad days. Over time, the good began to outnumber the bad. I’ve learned to not let the guilt and pain associated with the bad days keep me from enjoying and appreciating my life.

How am I doing now? Even though I still miss my daughter terribly, I’m good.