Three words. The most common question in the English language. And after someone dies by suicide, it becomes a landmine.
The checkout operator asks it as a reflex. Your colleague asks it with worried eyes. Your mother asks it three times a day. Your friend asks it and you can tell from their face they want the answer to be "better."
None of them are ready for the truth. Most of the time, neither are you.
The problem isn't the question — it's the decision it forces. Every time someone asks how you are, you have to make a split-second assessment: who is this person? How much do they want to know? How much can I afford to say? Will I cry if I tell the truth? Can I handle their reaction if I do?
That calculation is exhausting. Sometimes the only way to avoid it is to stay where no one can ask.
One thing that helps: have your answers ready before you need them. Not a script — just a few options in your pocket that you can reach for without having to think.
For the checkout operator, the casual acquaintance, the person who's really just saying hello: "Fine, thanks." You don't owe them your truth. "Fine" is a social lubricant, not a lie.
For the colleague, the friendly neighbour, the person who means well but can't handle depth: "Getting through it. Thanks for asking." Honest enough. Not too much.
For the close friend, the person who actually wants to know: "Honestly? Today is hard." Or: "I don't know how I am. I don't have a word for it." The people who can hold this are the ones worth telling.
For the person who won't stop asking: "I appreciate you checking in. I'll let you know when I want to talk about it." A boundary, not a rejection.
You will get better at this. Not because the grief gets smaller, but because the social navigation becomes more automatic. The first few weeks are the worst — every "how are you?" feels like being asked to undress in public. Over time, your answers become reflexes and the decision-making gets less exhausting.
Until then, your pre-made responses are armour. Use them without guilt.