Everyone I Know Is One Bad Day Away From A Breakdown (And We're All Pretending We're Fine)

You’re fine.

That’s what you told your boss this morning when he asked how you’re doing. That’s what you told your partner last night when they asked why you seem distant. That’s what you tell yourself every time you feel that thing in your chest that feels like drowning but happens on dry land.

You’re fine.

Except you’re not. And neither is anyone else.

I know because I spent the last two years being “fine” while my therapist extorted me for $126,000, my best friend died from addiction, my family had me arrested, and I fought a lawsuit that’s still active right now. And you know what I did during all of that?

I hit 195% of my sales goal. Regional VP. Top performer. Fine.

I showed up to client meetings the day after getting threatening texts. I closed deals while on probation. I led my team while being blackmailed by the person who was supposed to help me process trauma.

Nobody at work knew. Nobody could tell. Because I performed normal.

And so do you.

The Numbers Nobody Wants To Talk About

82% of American workers are at risk of burnout right now. That’s not a typo. That’s eight out of every ten people you work with.

72% report moderate to high stress at work. But if you asked them how they’re doing, they’d say “fine” or “busy” or “hanging in there.”

44% of Americans can’t afford a $1,000 medical emergency. But they’re still smiling in meetings and answering emails at 11pm and posting their wins on LinkedIn.

25% of workers have a second job right now. Another 37% are actively looking for one. But nobody mentions it because admitting you need two incomes to survive one life feels like failure.

This is the reality we’re all living. And we’re all pretending it’s normal.

Why We’re All Lying

You lie about being fine for the same reason I did.

Because admitting you’re drowning feels like weakness. Because your coworkers seem to be handling it. Because your boss expects performance regardless of your circumstances. Because showing cracks means you’re not cut out for this.

Because the person next to you is also drowning but they’re performing normal too, so you assume they’re actually fine and you’re the only one falling apart.

It’s a collective delusion. Everyone’s barely holding on. Everyone thinks they’re the only one. So everyone keeps pretending.

I pretended for two years straight. Performed so well that nobody questioned whether I was okay. Why would they? My numbers were great. My attitude was positive. My calendar was full.

The fact that I was being extorted, sued, abandoned, and threatened was invisible. Because high performers don’t break down. We just perform harder.

Until we can’t anymore.

What “Fine” Actually Costs

Here’s what nobody says about staying functional while dying inside.

You can do it. For a while. You can compartmentalize the chaos. You can show up and execute and smile and perform. You can keep all your darkness in a box that you only open alone at 3am when you can’t sleep because your nervous system won’t turn off.

You can survive extortion and family abandonment and legal warfare and grief. You can stay sober through all of it. You can hit your targets and lead your team and close your deals.

But you can’t do it without cost.

The cost is that you become a shell. You’re executing tasks but you’re not actually present. You’re answering questions but you’re not actually there. You’re in meetings but you’re watching yourself from outside your body wondering how long you can keep this performance going before something breaks.

The cost is that you stop feeling things. Not the bad things. You still feel those. But the good things disappear. Wins don’t hit anymore. Success feels empty. Achievements feel like checking boxes on a list someone else wrote.

The cost is that you measure your life in survival increments. Not “am I happy” but “did I make it through today.” Not “am I thriving” but “did I avoid breaking down in public.”

The cost is that fine becomes your ceiling instead of your floor.

And you don’t even realize you’re paying it because everyone around you is paying it too.

The Performance Nobody’s Questioning

The wild thing about burnout is that it doesn’t always look like failure.

Sometimes it looks like success.

I was a top performer while being destroyed. My metrics were excellent. My clients were happy. My team respected me. And I was dying inside.

That’s the trap. We assume burnout means you can’t function. But high performers burn out while functioning. We just do it quietly. Efficiently. Without bothering anyone.

We answer emails from the parking lot after crying in the car. We take calls while having panic attacks, muted. We hit deadlines while our personal lives implode. We perform normal while everything inside us is screaming.

And nobody questions it because the output is still there. The performance is intact. So the assumption is that we’re fine.

But we’re not fine. We’re just better at hiding it.

That’s not strength. That’s survival mode becoming your default setting. That’s a nervous system so used to threat that it can’t tell the difference between danger and Tuesday.

What Happens If We Stop Pretending

I don’t have an answer for how to fix this. I’m not a therapist. I barely trust therapists anymore after mine used five years of my vulnerabilities to extort me.

I don’t have a five step plan or a morning routine or a productivity hack that makes burnout disappear. This isn’t a self help article. This is just truth.

Here’s what I know:

Pretending you’re fine when you’re not makes everything worse. It isolates you. It makes you think you’re the only one struggling. It keeps you trapped in performance mode when your body is begging you to stop.

Admitting you’re drowning doesn’t fix the water. But it means you stop wasting energy pretending you’re not wet.

I started telling people the truth about what I was going through. Not everyone. Not all at once. But I stopped performing fine when I wasn’t.

You know what happened?

Nothing catastrophic. Nobody fired me. Nobody abandoned me. Nobody said I was weak.

Some people didn’t know what to say. That’s fine. Most people don’t know how to respond to “I’m being extorted by my therapist” or “my family had me arrested” or “I’m drowning but still hitting my numbers.”

But some people said “me too.”

Not the exact situation. But the feeling. The exhaustion. The performance. The one bad day away from breaking.

Turns out everyone’s holding on by a thread. They just didn’t know anyone else was too.

You’re Not Weak For Struggling

High performers think admitting struggle means they’re not cut out for this. That successful people don’t have breakdowns. That if you were really good at your job, you could handle the pressure without breaking.

That’s bullshit.

I hit 195% of my goal while being extorted. While being sued. While fighting criminal charges. While my best friend died. While my family turned on me.

And I’m still exhausted. I’m still one bad day away from a breakdown. I still wake up some mornings and don’t know how I’m going to make it through.

That’s not weakness. That’s being human while surviving circumstances that aren’t normal.

You’re not weak for struggling. You’re not failing because you’re burned out. You’re not broken because you can’t handle everything that’s being thrown at you while pretending to be fine.

You’re just human. And the world is asking humans to perform like machines while pretending the load isn’t crushing.

What I’m Actually Saying

I’m not telling you to quit your job. I’m not telling you to burn it all down. I’m not offering solutions or strategies or steps to fix this.

I’m just saying: you’re not alone in this.

Everyone you work with is barely holding on. Everyone you know is one bad day away from a breakdown. Everyone’s performing normal while dying inside.

The person who seems to have it together? They don’t. The coworker who’s always positive? They’re faking it. Your boss who never seems stressed? They are.

82% of workers are at risk of burnout. That’s not a small percentage of weak people. That’s almost everyone.

So stop thinking you’re the only one who can’t handle this. Stop thinking admitting you’re drowning means you failed. Stop thinking fine is the only acceptable answer when someone asks how you’re doing.

You’re allowed to be drowning. You’re allowed to be exhausted. You’re allowed to be one bad day away from a breakdown while still being good at your job, still being successful, still being a high performer.

Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. I’m proof.

I’m succeeding and drowning at the same time.

And so are you.

The question isn’t how to fix it. The question is: what happens when we stop pretending we’re fine?

I don’t know yet. But I’m done lying about it.

Maybe you should be too.

—Cody Taymore

Kill The Silence