Nobody Is Fine

A weekend in Malibu where almost everything is beautiful

I spent the weekend with my daughter in Malibu.
A hard place not to love.

And being with her, anywhere, is still my favorite place to be.

Every moment was magical. Thank you for a wonderful weekend Sweet E.

At nearly 21 (a milestone she’s eagerly awaiting), she’s become refined in her own way. Discerning. Observant. And a loyal friend. 

She listens for what isn’t said.

And this weekend, she caught me several times using the one word that’s forbidden in our home:

Fine. 

It slips out easily.
Are you cold? No, I’m fine.
Do you mind if we stop? That’s fine.

It happens.

And I love that she notices it.
Because what does fine actually mean?

I’ve written about this before in my Edit, “Not Fine. Preferred.”

But now I’m watching her become aware of it in her own world.

Friends she genuinely adores.
Smart. Kind. Capable. The kind you want in your corner.

But when the questions get real…
job searches that aren’t landing,
roommate situations that feel off,
personal things that don’t have easy language…

every answer sounds the same:

“It’s fine.” 
“I’m fine.”

And maybe on the surface, they are.

But if you’ve lived long enough, you know the difference between fine and barely holding it together.

You can feel it.

There’s a subtle, unspoken pressure hiding in plain sight.
Life needs to look perfect.

That you need to be okay at all times.
That anything hard, heavy, or unresolved should be handled internally… or not acknowledged at all.

And this isn’t just their generation.

It’s everywhere.

Social media amplifies it. 
Fashion exemplifies it. 
The wellness industry makes billions off of it. 

Somewhere along the way, living well became performative.

Here’s the problem:

When perfection becomes the standard, honesty starts to feel like failure.

So people smile.
They deflect.
They say they’re fine.

Even when they’re not.
Especially when they’re not.

And what concerns me isn’t that they’re struggling.

Struggle is part of being human.

What concerns me is how quickly it’s hidden. Minimized. Dismissed.
As if acknowledging it would make them less worthy. Less acceptable.

When did being human become something we try to conceal?

Because the reality is this:

People are hurting.
They’re overwhelmed.
They’re carrying things they don’t yet have language for.

And instead of creating space for that, we’ve created a standard that says:

Hold it together.
Look the part.
Don’t let it show.

I don’t want that for them.

I don’t want that for my daughter.
I don’t want that for any of us.

We don’t need to normalize perfection.
We need to normalize honesty.

Not oversharing.
Not unraveling in every room.

But being able to say:

I’m not okay right now.
This is hard.
I’m figuring it out.

That’s not weakness.

That’s awareness.
That’s maturity.
That’s where it actually begins.

Because the truth is, 
most people can already see the cracks.

And at some point, honesty becomes easier than holding it all together.

Always EDITing, 
Leslie

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P.S. If you find yourself in Malibu, there’s a small shop worth stepping into, California Incline.

The owner, Kelsey Chapman (I can’t help but appreciate the last name), is as stunning as the space she’s created.

We ended up in a real conversation about what it actually takes to build something from the ground up. She didn’t edit for perfection. Just honest. Open.

She’s just finding her way to Substack. When she decides to write, pay attention. You’ll be glad you did.

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