The Courage to Say “I’m Not Okay”

The Courage to Say "I'm Not Okay"

There's a moment in the television show Shrinking that captures something profoundly human. Jimmy, a therapist who lost his wife to a drunk driver a year earlier, has been running—from his pain, from his daughter, from himself. He's numbed everything with alcohol, drugs, and work. He's become functional enough to fool people, but he hasn't healed. And when his mentor tells him the devastating truth—"The worst thing in the world happened to you and you never asked for help"—Jimmy responds with two words that reveal everything: "I'm good."

But he isn't good. And neither are we, most of the time, when we say those words.

The Illusion of Control

"I'm good" sounds like strength. It sounds like resilience, like someone who has it all together. But often, it's actually resistance. It's our way of staying in control, of keeping people at arm's length, of maintaining the illusion that we can manage our own brokenness without help.

Jimmy thinks he can fix himself by fixing others. As long as he's helping other people, he never has to face how broken he is inside. For a while, it works. He feels that warmth when he helps someone, that sense of purpose and competence. But it doesn't last as long as it used to. The fix is no longer fixing.

This pattern—staying busy, staying useful, staying in control—is one many of us know intimately. We define ourselves by what we do, by how we help, by the problems we solve. We become doers and actors, always managing, always deciding, always maintaining control. And in doing so, we hide ourselves from others and from the truth of our own need.

Peter's Resistance

This same dynamic plays out in one of the most intimate moments in the Gospels. Jesus gathers with his disciples for what we now call the Last Supper. During dinner, he does something shocking: he gets up from the table, wraps himself with a towel, fills a basin with water, and begins washing his disciples' feet.

In the ancient Near East, foot washing wasn't optional—it was expected hospitality. When Simon the Pharisee failed to offer this service to Jesus earlier in the Gospel, he was essentially saying, "You're welcome here, but you're not honored here." Foot washing was an act of service, humility, and intimate care.

So when Jesus kneels before Peter with the basin, Peter's response is immediate and emphatic: "You will never wash my feet."

At first glance, this sounds like humility. Peter doesn't want to burden Jesus with such a menial task. But look closer, and you'll see something else: Peter is maintaining control. He's managing the situation, defining the boundaries, deciding what will and won't happen.

Jesus responds with words that cut to the heart of the matter: "If I do not wash your feet, you have no share with me."

This isn't a threat. It's a truth about the nature of relationship. As long as we grip tightly to our control, we cannot truly be in relationship. Relationship requires vulnerability. It requires allowing someone else to serve us, to see us, to touch the parts of us we'd rather keep hidden.

The Vulnerability of Feet

There's something deeply vulnerable about feet. Many people don't like exposing their feet to others. They're often the part of us we're most self-conscious about—calloused, imperfect, unadorned. They literally carry us through the dirt and dust of daily life.

When the disciples exposed their feet to Jesus, they were exposing their vulnerability. They were allowing themselves to be seen, to be served, to be out of control.

Peter struggles with this. After Jesus tells him he must allow the foot washing or have no share with him, Peter swings to the opposite extreme: "Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head!"

But notice—Peter is still trying to manage Jesus's behavior. He's still trying to control the situation, just in a different way. He hasn't yet learned what it means to simply receive love.

The Lesson We Miss

After washing all the disciples' feet, Jesus asks them, "Do you know what I have done for you? You call me teacher and Lord, and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet."

It's easy to misinterpret this teaching. We hear it as another command to go out and serve others, to fix people, to be the helper. But that's not what Jesus is teaching at all.

Jesus is still trying to teach Peter—and us—what it means to receive love. He's teaching us that being present in love means not controlling the outcome. It means kneeling before another person's vulnerability without trying to fix them, manage them, or change them.

One of the most difficult lessons for Christian chaplains is learning to sit with someone of a different faith and be present in love without being able to control the outcome. They can't fix the person's theology, solve their spiritual crisis, or convert them. They can only be present.

Where Are You Not Okay?

Back to Jimmy's story. After the distractions stop distracting and the house is empty, he finally makes a phone call. He sits down with someone who truly sees him. And he says perhaps the only honest thing he's said in a very long time: "I'm not okay."

Those three words are an act of profound courage. They're a relinquishing of control. They're an admission of need, of vulnerability, of humanity.

Where in your life are you saying "I'm good" when you're really not? Where are you fixing others to avoid facing your own brokenness? Where are you maintaining control instead of entering into relationship?

Jesus kneels before us with a basin and a towel, waiting silently as we struggle with everything within us. He's not asking us to have it all together. He's not asking us to be strong or competent or in control. He's simply asking us to let him wash our feet.

He's asking us to be vulnerable enough to receive love.

Can you imagine that moment—sitting in your seat, Jesus kneeling in front of you, waiting? What would it take for you to say, "I'm not okay"? What would it mean to be present in love without controlling the outcome, both in receiving care and in offering it to others?

The invitation is simple and terrifying: Let yourself be loved. Let yourself be seen. Let go of control long enough to enter into true relationship.

Because as long as we're gripping tightly to our control, we cannot truly share in the life that Jesus offers—a life of authentic connection, vulnerability, and love.