I'm Fine, and Nothing Is OK: Finding Hope in Service
Dear One,
We've all done it. Someone asks, "How are you?" and we answer without thinking: "I'm fine."
But inside, we're not fine.
Inside, the world feels heavy. Grief hangs in the air like a fog we can't quite shake off. Wars rage on. Communities fracture. Climate disasters uproot lives. Families mourn losses. And in our bodies, we carry quiet heartbreaks — lost relationships, unspoken fears, anxious nights.
I've come to realize that our entire world is in mourning. We're grieving not only the people we've lost, but the sense of certainty we once believed in. The future feels fragile. Every headline reminds us of how delicate this life is. And yet, in the middle of this continuous, aching sorrow, I still find reasons to get up in the morning.
For me, that reason is service.
This spring, I planted a garden for my neighbor, who has loved having her garden for decades but can no longer tend to the soil the way she once did. She told me stories about the years she has enjoyed her garden with her family, the Peonies she planted with her daughter, and her son-in-law, who helped her weed and plant over the years. As I placed each plant gently in the earth, I felt like I wasn't just growing plants — I was nurturing memory, connection, and a bit of hope in a world that desperately needs it.
In my work, I've also had the honor of helping to fulfill the wishes of clients who have died. Whether it's delivering a letter they wrote before their death, helping to arrange a final celebration they dreamed of, or supporting a cause they cared about, these acts remind me that our legacies don't disappear when we leave this world. They linger in the stories we tell, the gardens we tend, and the small kindnesses we carry forward.
Just recently, I held space for a family devastated by the sudden loss of their beloved son. There are no words big enough to hold a grief like that. All I could do was be there — to sit in silence, to witness their pain, to acknowledge the immeasurable loss, and offer a blessing. In those moments, when words fail, presence becomes everything. I hold space for people grieving the loss of dreams, identity, and innocence. It's in these sacred, tender moments that I remember what it means to be human.
Serving others doesn't erase my own grief — it honors it. I am reminded that I am not alone in feeling unsteady. That beneath our performative "I'm fine" replies, most of us are carrying something heavy. Grief connects us. Compassion sustains us. And even when nothing feels OK, love and community are still possible.
We can tend each other's gardens, carry out each other's wishes, and cradle each other's grief. It's through these experiences that I've come to realize that while nothing may feel OK, we can still be here for each other.
I am reminded that while we can't fix everything, we can witness, hold, and tend to one another's wounds. We can weave new meaning from sorrow. We can build circles of care that honor both our grief and our resilience.
So no, I'm not fine.
And that's OK.
Because in naming that truth, I create space for others to say it too, and make room for connection.
And in showing up for my community — in gardens, in hospital rooms, in tear-soaked living rooms — I am reminded that while the world may be heavy, we do not have to carry it alone, and we begin to heal. Not because everything is alright, but because love still finds a way to grow.
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