How Are You Really Doing?

September 11, 2001. I was serving as Assistant Superintendent for Middle Schools in the Parkway School District in Chesterfield, Missouri. The news hit like a punch to the chest. We scrambled to think through next steps—how to provide calm and care in a moment of uncertainty for our students, our staff, our community. I spent the day moving from school to school, checking in, listening, absorbing the weight of it all.

One moment still lives in me.

I stepped into Pat Carson’s sixth-grade classroom between passing periods. The hallway buzzed with the usual shuffle of backpacks and adolescent energy, but the air was heavy. Pat and I locked eyes. We both shook our heads, stunned by the enormity of what was unfolding in our country.

“Pat, how are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, almost reflexively.

I paused. Something in her eyes told me that wasn’t the whole truth.

“Pat… how are you really doing?”

She broke. Tears spilled. She reached out, placed her hands on my shoulders, and leaned in. I held her. We cried together—two educators, two humans, trying to make sense of the senseless.

When she pulled back, she smiled through the tears. “I guess I’ve just been holding that in all morning for the kids. I’m so fearful. I’m worried about where this is heading.”

I nodded. No answers. Just presence.

Then the students began to trickle in. Pat wiped her eyes, straightened her shoulders, and greeted them with warmth. “You go do your thing, B.R. Thanks—I needed that. I’m breathing a bit easier now. I’m really okay. And I mean really okay.”

I smiled. “Pat, I needed that moment too. Thank you.”

We mean well, most of us. We see someone who’s endured shocking news, a loss, a betrayal—and we reach for the compliment: “You handled it so well.” It’s meant to affirm, to uplift. But sometimes, it lands like a thud. Because what we’re really praising is the mask.

Behind that composed nod, that steady voice, that return to work or Wednesday game night, there may be a storm still raging. The person isn’t “over it.” They’re surviving it. They’re putting one foot in front of the other because the alternative is collapse. And collapse isn’t an option when the students are still facing you in the classroom, the bills need to be paid, the dog still needs walking, and the world keeps spinning.

When we rush to applaud resilience, we risk skipping the part where we witness the pain. Where we say, “That must have been brutal,” or “I can’t imagine how hard that was—do you want to talk about it?” We risk missing the sacred act of sitting beside someone in their ache, without trying to tidy it up.

Empathy doesn’t require a solution. It asks for presence. For listening without fixing. For honoring the struggle, not just the survival.

So next time someone tells us their story, let’s not rush to the gold star. Let’s commit to stay in the mess with them a moment longer. That’s where the real connection lives.

I’m going to work on this. How about you?

How are you doing? Pause. How are you really doing?