I’m Doing Fine
They were having lunch with a friend.
Everything was going fine.
The restaurant was pleasant.
The conversation was easy.
Their friend was telling a story about work, and they were listening, asking questions, laughing in the right places.
From the outside, nothing seemed unusual.
They weren’t having one of the “run to the bathroom” moments they worried about.
Nothing was actively falling apart.
And yet, part of their attention kept drifting back to their stomach.
A little knotting.
A little tightness.
Nothing dramatic.
Just enough to notice.
Should I take the Imodium now?
Or should I wait?
Maybe it’ll settle down.
Maybe I’m overthinking it.
Maybe I should keep an eye on it.
Their friend kept talking.
They kept listening.
Nodding.
Participating.
Being present as best they could.
In many ways, they genuinely wanted to be there.
The lunch mattered to them.
The friendship mattered to them.
So when the conversation eventually turned and the friend asked:
“How have you been?”
They answered:
“I’m good.”
And in many ways, that was true.
Life was moving forward.
Work was okay.
The friendship was okay.
The lunch was okay.
At the same time, their stomach was still sitting quietly in the background of the conversation, asking for attention.
Not enough to derail the afternoon.
But enough that part of their mind never fully stopped tracking it.
As they listened, another thought drifted through their mind.
Wait.
Does this friend even know about the IBS?
Who have I actually told?
The answer felt strangely unclear.
Some people knew.
At least in the broad sense.
But how many people really knew?
How many understood how much space it occupied?
How often thoughts drifted toward symptoms?
How much mental energy went into monitoring, planning, wondering, and trying to make sense of things?
And then another question appeared.
Why haven’t I talked about it more?
And, would I be I one of those people who talks about their health all the time?
Would I sound boring?
Complainy?
Like someone who always has a problem?
This was a good friend.
Someone kind.
Someone who would probably be supportive.
If they said:
“My stomach’s acting up a bit today.”
Or:
“I’m actually pretty distracted by it.”
The friend would likely understand.
Or at least try to.
And yet it still felt easier to say:
“I’m good.”
Sometimes they wondered whether they had simply gotten used to carrying it alone.
Whether the thoughts, monitoring, uncertainty, and calculations had become so normal that they no longer seemed worth mentioning.
Or maybe they wanted one conversation that wasn’t about IBS.
Maybe they weren’t entirely sure how to explain what was happening themselves.
The friend kept talking.
They kept listening.
And the conversation moved on.
For a moment, they felt unexpectedly alone.
Not because they were alone.
But because something that occupied so much of their attention remained invisible to everyone else at the table.
Sometimes friends and family assumed that if symptoms weren’t actively flaring, then IBS wasn’t taking up much space.
But that wasn’t always how it felt.
A relatively good day could still contain a surprising amount of mental activity.
Remembering where the nearest bathroom was.
Wondering whether a symptom meant anything.
Thinking ahead to dinner plans.
Replaying how yesterday felt.
Trying to figure out whether things were getting better or worse.
Trying to decide whether to pay attention to a symptom or ignore it.
Most of this happened silently.
By the time someone asked, “How are you doing?” there was rarely a simple answer.
Because in many ways, they really were doing fine.
And in other ways, they were carrying something that was difficult to describe.
Not necessarily pain and not necessarily fear.
Mental energy.
The effort of living with uncertainty.
For many people living with IBS or chronic digestive symptoms, one of the hardest parts of the experience is not always visible from the outside.
Life continues.
People go to work.
Meet friends.
Take vacations.
Attend family gatherings.
Show up for responsibilities.
And often they genuinely enjoy those things.
At the same time, symptoms and uncertainty can continue occupying space in the background of daily life.
Over time, the burden is not always measured by the intensity of symptoms alone.
Sometimes it is measured by how much attention symptoms quietly require.
How often thoughts drift back to the body.
How much energy goes toward monitoring, planning, anticipating, and making sense of things.
And because so much of that process happens internally, many people find themselves answering honestly when they say:
“I’m doing fine.”
Followed quickly by:
“How are you?”
Not necessarily because there is nothing more to say.
But because sometimes it feels easier to turn the conversation back toward someone else than to explain an experience that is difficult to put into words.
The conversation moves forward.
The attention shifts elsewhere.
And the thoughts, questions, calculations, and uncertainty remain quietly in the background—seen by no one else at the table.
If this story resonated with you, and you’re looking for support in navigating
the gut-brain connection, I’d be glad to talk.