In many cultures, particularly across African societies, the phrase “It is well” holds a significance that reaches far beyond its literal interpretation. It carries the weight of hope, faith, resignation, and a form of emotional self-preservation. It’s the phrase whispered at hospital bedsides, gravesites, and after devastating losses when relationships fall apart, jobs disappear, or silent dreams dissolve. It becomes a kind of emotional glue, a soothing balm, a curtain drawn over the rawness of real pain.
But perhaps it’s time to ask ourselves: do we say “It is well” out of genuine acceptance, or because we’re too afraid to admit that, in truth, it isn’t?
When “It Is Well” Becomes a Mask
There’s a vital difference between resilience and suppression. Resilience means we face our reality and still choose to move forward. Suppression, on the other hand, is when we wrap our pain in beautiful words because the truth feels too threatening to confront.
In moments of suffering, “It is well” becomes a culturally sanctioned way of saying, “Please don’t dig deeper.” It’s often spoken when the weight of the situation is too heavy to unpack, or when our communities don’t make room for emotional honesty. Instead of creating space for healing, we conceal our grief and confusion under the cloak of philosophical endurance, fearing that to speak plainly is to lose faith or invite more suffering.
This fear of acknowledging pain doesn’t just exist in our cultural spaces, it also echoes through religious teachings. In both the Quran and the Bible, we see faith intertwined with an honest engagement with suffering. The Quran’s Surah Ash-Sharh (94:5-7) reminds us: “So, indeed, with hardship, there is ease. Indeed, with hardship, there is ease.” This verse offers not just comfort, but a framework for understanding that hardship is not the end of the story. The pain you feel now will eventually give way to ease, as long as you remain steadfast. In this light, acknowledging hardship isn’t about denying your struggle, but about holding onto the hope of divine mercy that follows.
Similarly, in Isaiah 3:10, the Bible assures the righteous: “Say to the righteous that it shall be well with them, for they shall eat the fruit of their deeds.” But here’s the thing: the hope in this verse is not an invitation to suppress the pain you’re feeling in the moment. It’s a call to trust that even amidst suffering, a righteous path leads to restoration. Yet, we often miss the nuance. “It is well” can be a powerful affirmation, but only if it follows the honest acknowledgment of our struggles. Sometimes, a more honest approach might be: “It is not well, but I trust that God will see me through.”
The Fear of Naming What’s Wrong
There’s a harmful idea floating through many religious and cultural spaces that admitting “I’m not okay” is tantamount to spiritual defeat. People are taught that naming their pain might give it power, or worse, that expressing brokenness reflects a lack of belief. But both the Quran and the Bible, in their call for hope, also underscore the importance of emotional honesty. True faith doesn’t shrink from expressing grief; it holds space for both suffering and hope.
Denying pain does not erase it. Smiling through struggle does not make it smaller. And silence does not strengthen us; it buries our hurt until it festers or explodes. Acknowledging that something is wrong is not a surrender of hope it is an honest act of humanity. We need to remember that faith isn’t fragile enough to be threatened by our feelings.
What If We Said What We Really Felt?
There’s profound power in voicing what’s real. Saying “This hurts,” “I’m tired,” “I don’t understand,” “I’m scared,” or “I’m not okay” is not a declaration of weakness. These are courageous admissions that break down walls and open doors. They make space for empathy, for solidarity, for healing.
When we speak like this, we invite others to sit beside us rather than stand over us. We replace performance with connection, and pretense with presence.
Acceptance Isn’t Denial
True acceptance doesn’t mean putting on a brave face while denying the pain beneath. It means looking the full weight of reality in the eye, letting the tears come, asking the hard questions, sitting with the confusion and then, still choosing to move forward.
“It is well” should not be a shield we hide behind; it should be the quiet confidence that arrives after we’ve fully felt what there is to feel, not instead of it.
Why This Matters Now
This reflection was sparked by a powerful video recently shared in a WhatsApp group of an elite social-sport club. A woman clearly frustrated yet hopeful passionately urged us to shift our collective mindset. She spoke about the dangerous way society increasingly rewards virality, frivolity, and superficial fame, while sidelining intelligence, education, and meaningful contributions.
Her tone was urgent, impassioned, and filled with belief that change is still possible but only if we become intentional about what (and who) we uplift. And yet, she ended with the phrase: “It is well.”
A phrase so many of us default to, especially in Nigeria. But in that moment, “It is well” felt like a soft landing that contradicted the hard truths she had just laid bare.
When things are not well, pretending they are only delays action. “It is well” can send the wrong signal, it soothes discomfort when discomfort is exactly what’s needed to spark change. If the goal is to wake people up, then our words should reinforce urgency, not resignation.
We can’t keep quieting discomfort with poetic closure. We must let discomfort do its work.
The Balance We Need
Hope is not the enemy of truth. Faith is not weakened by honesty. There is power in calm perseverance, yes but also in vulnerability, in naming the storm for what it is without rushing to make it sound spiritual. Life does not always require a philosophical bow tied neatly around our chaos.
Sometimes, the most healing, faithful thing we can say is: “It is not well right now. But I’m holding on.” And that is more than enough.
Conclusion
We must give ourselves and one another permission to be real to shed the pressure of masking pain with cultural or spiritual tradition. Honesty doesn’t invite more suffering; it invites freedom. So rather than defaulting to “It is well” when life feels anything but, we can start saying, “It’s hard. I don’t have all the answers. But I’m here. Still standing.” That, too, is an act of faith. That, too, is strength. And that might be what truly sparks change.
