This Was the Year We Forgot How to Ask “Are You Okay?”

Some people don’t disappear. They just go silent.

The bus kept running, but no one was speaking. Not to each other. Not to themselves. Just the glow of tired screens on tired faces. Outside, the city was pulsing. Inside, it was already gone.

What Happens When the Question Dies Before It Leaves the Mouth?

There was a time when “Are you okay?” carried weight. A pulse check. A thread between hearts. But somewhere between the headlines, the deadlines, the feed scrolls, and the blue light insomnia, we stopped offering it. Or maybe we forgot how. Not because we didn’t care, but because we were too close to the edge ourselves.

Grief became common. Exhaustion became culture. Loneliness became wallpaper.

It wasn't a single moment. It was gradual. Like a candle that doesn’t go out, just flickers until you forget it was ever burning. We started assuming everyone was fine, or wanted to be left alone, or would reach out if they needed us.

But pain rarely sends notifications.

Sometimes it just whispers, hoping someone still speaks whisper.

That’s what this year felt like. A year of quiet disappearances. Of people smiling from across the room and collapsing behind closed doors. Of digital masks and real silence.

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And in moments like these, when we don’t know what to say or how to stay, presence becomes everything. This book The Art of Holding Space doesn’t fix anything. It simply reminds us how to show up without answers. How to be the quiet beside someone else's storm.

Where Do the Strong Go When They Break?

We always check on the ones who cry. But what about the ones who don’t? The ones who joke through everything, carry others, say “I’m good” with a crack in the corner of their voice?

We lost some of them this year.

Not all to death. But to retreat. To burnout. To emotional vanishing. They faded not because they wanted to, but because we forgot they could.

One friend deleted every app, then vanished from group chats. Another started missing calls and blaming “bad reception.” And another began saying yes to everything while secretly hoping someone would notice they needed to say no.

None of them said, “Help.”

Modern life moves quickly. But it isn't just speed. It’s surface. You can be surrounded by people and still feel unseen. You can smile over lunch and cry alone in a stairwell. You can post a sunset and still mean goodbye.

What if we knew how to stay longer in someone else's pause? What if we relearned slowness, not as luxury, but as intimacy?

Why Silence Sometimes Screams Louder Than Words

Globally, close to 740,000 people die by suicide every year. That means one person, every 43 seconds, choosing silence. And by mid-2025, we are already approaching the total that used to take twelve months to reach. Quiet. Consistent. Almost invisible.

No one tells you how many people walk this world not wanting to die, just wanting to stop disappearing. Not craving death, craving witness. A heartbeat mirrored. A name said without agenda. A moment when someone waits for your answer after asking if you’re okay.

This was the year so many forgot how to ask. Or didn’t think they had the right. Or thought maybe they were intruding. So we all waited for each other, and the silence grew teeth.

And here’s the strange thing: even asking isn’t everything. It’s how you ask. Whether you stay. Whether you flinch when the answer is hard. Whether you can sit in someone else’s rain without opening an umbrella for yourself.

Sometimes, love is just staying.

What Will We Remember About This Year?

Maybe not the news. Not the politics or the celebrity heartbreaks or the storms. Maybe what stays is who didn’t. The ones who left too early. The ones who withdrew in silence. The ones we kept meaning to check on but didn’t. Because we thought they were strong. Because we were tired. Because we didn’t know how.

Maybe the only apology that matters now is presence.

Maybe the most radical thing we can do is slow down enough to truly ask again. Not to fill silence. But to open it. To make space without fear of what will echo back.

We are not here to fix each other. We are here to witness what aches, and stay anyway.

This quiet companion doesn’t shout. But it stays. The Art of Holding Space is a kind of tenderness you don’t need permission to offer. Sometimes, that’s the most important kind. Available on Amazon.

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Further Reading: Echoes That Stayed

The Room Where You Cry After Saving a Life

Even triumph has its shadows. Even strength has a place to break.

The 3:00 AM Economy: Why Nobody Sleeps in the City Anymore

Exhaustion became identity. Silence became a privilege.

When the Old Were Young: Why Vintage Youth Still Hurts

The past ages differently in people who were never allowed to rest.

IMAGE CREDITS

All images in this article were generated using AI, crafted intentionally to illustrate symbolic and emotional depth. These visuals are shared under fair use for the purpose of thoughtful commentary and immersive storytelling.

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