Reflections on questions I don’t fully or always know how to answer…

I’m a therapist.
I’m also the strong friend.
And I’m an introvert.

Which means I spend most of my life holding space for others. Listening carefully, asking thoughtful questions, noticing what’s left unsaid, and helping people untangle emotions they’ve been carrying quietly for years.

What most people don’t realize is that when you live in that role long enough, something subtle happens.

You forget how to answer the question, “How are you?”

Not because you don’t have feelings, but because you’re so used to no one asking.

As the strong friend, you become the safe place.
As the therapist, you become the container.
As the introvert, you become accustomed to processing internally instead of externally.

So when someone genuinely pauses and asks how I am, really asks, I sometimes freeze. My mind scans for a socially acceptable, low-maintenance response. I downplay. I summarize. I deflect with humor. I say, “I’m fine” or “I’m good, just busy,” even when there’s an entire novel living inside my chest.

Not because I’m hiding.
But because I never learned how to take up that kind of space.

Strong friends are praised for being resilient, not for being honest. We’re celebrated for our capacity, not our needs. People check in with us after a crisis, rarely during the quiet accumulation of exhaustion, grief, or loneliness.

And therapists? We’re trained to bracket our inner world so we can be fully present for others. It’s meaningful work. Sacred work. But it can blur the line between having emotional regulation and never being witnessed.

Add introversion to the mix, and it gets even more nuanced.

Introverts don’t process out loud. We need time, safety, and intention to open. We don’t share in soundbites. We share in layers. So when someone asks how we are casually, in passing, or without the capacity to actually hear the answer, our nervous system says, “Now is not the moment.”

And eventually, you stop expecting a moment at all.

Here’s the truth I’ve learned, both personally and professionally.

Not knowing how to share about yourself is not a flaw.
It’s an adaptation.

It’s what happens when you’re used to being the listener, the stabilizer, the one who can handle it. It’s what happens when your role has always been to make things easier for others.

But even the strong friend needs a place to set the weight down.
Even the therapist needs to be held.
Even the introvert deserves to be asked and given time to answer.

Part of healing, for people like us, isn’t learning how to be stronger.
It’s learning how to be seen without apologizing for it.

It’s practicing saying more than “I’m fine.”
It’s letting the answer be messy, unfinished, or quiet.
It’s trusting that someone can hold our truth the way we’ve held theirs.

If this resonates with you, if you’re the one everyone leans on, the one who feels deeply but shares sparingly, the one who doesn’t quite know how to respond when the spotlight turns inward, know this.

You’re not broken.
You’re just overdue for care.

And you’re allowed to take up space, too.