Am I OK? A True Answer for R U OK? Day
For the first time in a very long time, I can say it plainly: I’m OK.
That sentence feels simple, but it lands with weight. The past year has been steady in a way I once thought was out of reach. My life has order. My career is moving forward. My health is the best it’s been. I’m single by choice — not as a placeholder, but as an intentional chapter while I keep rebuilding. That doesn’t read as loneliness to me anymore; it reads as clarity.
It hasn’t always been like this. There were years when I couldn’t see the road out. I was losing friends to things that should never have taken them — illnesses that weren’t their fault, overdoses that should never have happened, and suicides that stunned everyone who loved them. Grief arrived in waves, and shame moved in like weather. I told myself a story: you are unlovable, and that is permanent. I believed it long enough to act like it was true.
I coped by not coping. I drank. I took whatever was on offer until I could shut my mind off. Most nights I wasn’t sleeping; I was escaping. Then I’d wake up disappointed that the loop had reset — that I had to do it all again, with a head full of noise and a body I wasn’t listening to. That went on for years. If you’ve lived any version of that, you know how quietly it steals your sense of time and self.
There wasn’t one dramatic turning point. There was a sentence: “I’m not OK.” I said it out loud to someone who didn’t flinch, and that honesty set off a series of needs-based decisions. I went into a mental health hospital for thirty days. It wasn’t a punishment; it was a pause. Space to breathe. Space to be witnessed. Space to remember what actually matters and what was just habit.
Those thirty days were not a miracle cure, but they were a reset. I leaned hard into the basics I’d neglected: group therapy, movement, decent food, real sleep, telling the truth even when it made my voice shake. I surprised myself by finding parts of me that still worked — the organiser, the networker, the friend. Even in a hospital ward, those muscles were there. And I was reminded of an old law that sounds trite until you test it: you get out what you put in.
Since then, the project has been consistency. Not a straight line, not a highlight reel — a practice. I’ve stayed sober. I’ve trained. I’ve pushed my body through things that have clear finish lines: HYROX, the Bruny Island Ultra relay, the Point to Pinnacle — the world’s toughest half marathon — just to prove to myself that “hard” and “impossible” are not synonyms. Those events were milestones. But the hardest climb wasn’t one I could photograph. It was crawling out of depression without an audience or a medal, choosing again and again to live a day instead of enduring it.
Do I still worry about the damage those years did? Yes. I’m human, and anxiety likes a project. My doctors and psychologists tell me that the last three (plus) years — healthy, fit, sober — have repaired more than I can see from the inside. Some days I have to borrow their confidence. On those days, I keep doing the work anyway: be kinder on purpose, be better on purpose, be patient on purpose.
So, what does R U OK? Day mean to me now?
It means remembering how powerful one honest question can be if you stay for the answer. It means honouring the people who asked me that question and didn’t try to fix me, sell me a shortcut, or turn my pain into a performance. It means offering the same steadiness to others: a chair, a walk, a coffee, a lift to an appointment, a message at 10pm that says “You don’t have to carry this alone tonight.”
If you’re in the middle of it — if the mornings are heavy and the nights are louder than they should be — let me say this plainly: your pain is not proof that you’re failing. Asking for help is not a collapse; it’s a skill. You don’t need a master plan. You need one truthful sentence to one safe person. “I’m not OK.” That’s enough to start.
If you’re doing OK today — genuinely OK — you have power. Use it gently. Ask someone how they’re going, then practice the hardest part: do nothing clever. Let silence sit. Reflect back what you hear. Offer a small next step that doesn’t overwhelm: “Can I come for a walk with you tomorrow?” “Want me to book the GP and come along?” “I’ll text you on Sunday to check in.” Belonging is built by repetition, not grand gestures.
I’ve learned a few other things the slow way:
Clarity beats intensity. Grand overhauls are seductive and unsustainable. Changing the hour you go to bed for a month will alter your life more than a single heroic weekend.
Movement lowers the volume. I don’t exercise to punish my body; I move to quiet my mind. A 20-minute walk, a set of bodyweight squats, a swim in cold water — none of these fix everything. They just soften the edges until you can reach for a person.
Ordinary is underrated. We romanticise breakthroughs and underestimate rhythms. One recurring coffee with the same two people will do more for your mental health than a quarterly “big night” you’ll cancel anyway.
Service changes the angle. When I aim straight at “feeling better,” I can spiral. When I aim at “being useful,” joy sneaks up from the side. Carry a meal to someone. Volunteer. Send a note. Show up to watch a friend’s game. You’ll walk home lighter.
You don’t have to earn rest. Rest is not a prize for finishing your to-do list; it’s fuel for surviving your life. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is a quiet morning with your phone in another room.
There’s also a truth about identity I wish I’d learned earlier: you don’t need a persona to be loved. Sobriety stripped a lot of performance out of my life. At first, I felt blank and awkward, like I’d left my costume at home. But underneath the old roles — the life-of-the-party version of me, the agreeable version, the always-on fixer — there was a person people could actually meet. That person has deeper friendships now. They take longer to build, and they’re much harder to lose.
If you want something practical to take from this, try a tiny bundle:
One honest sentence: Tell one person you trust, “I’m not OK, and I don’t know what to do next.” Or if you’re steady today: “I’ve been thinking of you — how are you, really?”
One repeatable plan: Put a 30-minute walk or coffee on a recurring day with one friend. No big production, no pressure to “catch up on everything.” Just a rhythm.
One act of service: Do a small, visible kindness for someone this week with no fanfare and no Instagram story. You’ll both remember it longer than a like.
One micro-rest: Carve out half an hour with your phone away and your body doing something simple — a stretch, a bath, a book in the sun. Rescue a quiet patch of your day.
Today, my answer to “R U OK?” is yes. Not because life is perfect, not because the past didn’t happen, and not because I’m trying to present a tidy success story. I’m OK because I’ve built a set of habits that help me stay close to myself and close to other people. I’m OK because I asked for help and let it matter. I’m OK because when I stumble — and I do — I start again sooner.
If you’re not OK, borrow my belief for a minute: it won’t always feel like this. You don’t have to climb the whole mountain this week. You just need the first rung of the ladder — one person, one conversation, one next step.
And if you need somewhere to start, start with me. I won’t judge. I won’t rush you. I’ll listen, and if you want, I’ll walk beside you while you figure out what comes next.
Help if you need it today (Australia):
Lifeline 13 11 14 (24/7) • Beyond Blue 1300 22 4636 or webchat • QLife 1800 184 527 (LGBTQIA+ peer support) • If you’re in immediate danger, call 000.
Practical resources: ruok.org.au
R U OK? Ask. Answer. And when you can, stay for the silence in between. That’s where the change begins.