I say no to my kids about forty times a day.
Can I stay up late? No. Can I have a lolly before dinner? No. Can I skip my homework? Definitely not. Can I shower tomorrow instead? Nice try.
It comes out effortlessly. No hesitation, no guilt, no second-guessing. Just a clear, confident no.
But when someone asks me, genuinely asks me, "Are you okay?" and the honest answer is no... that word suddenly feels impossible. Instead, I reach for something softer. Something more socially acceptable. "Yeah, I'm fine." "There's just a lot happening." "It's been a week." Or my personal favourite: "Things are busy."
I'll be honest — those responses are often just a polished way of saying I'm not really okay. And I don't think I'm alone in that.
Why Is the Simplest Word the Hardest One to Say?
I think part of it is how many of us have been taught to show up in the world. Be capable. Be resilient. Keep moving forward. Solve problems. Manage competing priorities. Look after your family, your team, your mates. Put one foot in front of the other and get on with it.
Somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed the idea that asking for help , or admitting things are hard, is a sign of weakness. That struggling somehow makes you less capable, less professional, less worthy of the role you hold.
That's the problem.
Because the reality is that most people are carrying something. Stress. Grief. Financial pressure. A family member's illness. Relationship challenges. Or just the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from holding it all together for too long. We don't see any of that when we pass each other in the corridor, join a Teams call, or sit beside one another in a meeting.
People don't start their day when they log into a computer, walk through a gate, or arrive at the office. People arrive at work already carrying the realities of life.
The Data Tells a Story Worth Listening To
Across organisation that I have led health and safety, Employee Assistance Program utilisation consistently sits above industry benchmarks, which is roughly 13% employee utilisation. That tells me something important: people trust the support enough to actually use it.
But here's what I find even more telling. Generally, more than 50% of EAP matters relate to personal issues rather than work-related concerns.
Read that again.
The weight people are carrying into work every day is overwhelmingly personal. And they're reaching out, not because their employer caused the problem, but because their employer created a space where it felt safe to ask for help.
That matters. It’s reassuring that people use these services as a starting point. But we know that services alone aren't the only answer.
Care, Don't Carry
One of the things I've learned later in my career as a leader, and something I wish I had of learned sooner, is the difference between caring about someone and carrying someone else's stress.
I think one of the reasons people hesitate to ask "Are you okay?" is because they're worried about what happens if the answer is no. They fear that hearing the truth means they'll be responsible for fixing it. That they'll somehow have to take on another person's burden on top of their own.
But that's not what support looks like.
Caring means being present. Listening. Checking in. Helping someone feel seen. Carrying means taking ownership of a problem that isn't yours to solve — and often leaving yourself overwhelmed in the process. More carrying ≠ better caring. In fact, it usually leads to two people struggling instead of one.
My message is simple: you don't need to have all the answers. You don't need to be a counsellor. You don't need to fix everything in the first five minutes.
Sometimes the most valuable thing you can do is simply create the space for someone to say, "Actually, things aren't great at the moment." That's it. That's enough.
Dadirri and the Practice of Actually Listening
I live near the Maribyrnong River, on the Country of the Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung people. When I'm not okay, when the noise gets too loud and when “things are busy” I walk along that river. It's where I reflect, decompress, and let myself think without performing capability for anyone.
Miriam-Rose Ungunmerr Baumann, a Nauiyu elder and educator, speaks of *Dadirri* — inner, deep listening and quiet, still awareness. A practice of slowing down, listening, and reconnecting with ourselves and the world around us.
I come back to that idea often, because I think it describes exactly what's missing from most of our conversations about mental health at work. We talk a lot about programs and pathways and resources. We talk less about the quality of our attention. About what it means to actually listen, not to respond, not to fix, not to redirect, but to hear someone.
That kind of listening is a skill. Not as a buzzword, as a genuine skill set. And it's one most of us were not taught.
Where It Starts
For me, it starts with a few things.
Ask the question, and genuinely listen to the answer. Not while composing your next email. Not while mentally triaging your to-do list, not while making the school lunches or wrangling the kids out the door. Actually listen.
Don't rush to fix. Most people don't need a solution. They need to feel heard.
Share a little of yourself. Vulnerability is contagious. When leaders and colleagues are honest about their own challenges, it gives others permission to be honest too. Every time I've said "I'm struggling with this" out loud, the room has shifted.
And keep checking in. One conversation is valuable. Consistent conversations are where trust is built. And that trust is culture. You can't audit it into existence.
This year's R U OK? Day theme is that a conversation can change a life. I believe that's true — not because a single conversation magically fixes everything, but because it reminds someone they are not alone. Sometimes that's exactly what a person needs to hear.
So before you close this tab and move on to the next thing, ask yourself: when was the last time someone asked how you were, and you told them the truth?
When was the last time you created the space for someone else to do the same?