We ask it every day. And over the years we’ve gotten better at asking it properly. “Are you okay, really?”

We’ve learnt to sit with people when the answer isn’t “I’m okay.” Thank God for that. I’ve been the person that wasn’t ok. I’ve needed people to check in on me during some of the hardest years of my life. And I’ve also been the support person more times than I can count, a privilege I don’t take lightly.

But I’ve been wondering about something else:

Are we better at hearing “I’m not okay” than we are at hearing “I’m amazing”?

Because for a while now, that’s been my answer.

Not because my life is perfect. But because that’s how I really feel. Right now, my mental health is great. My physical health is great. My kids are thriving. My marriage is strong. I love my work, my home, my people. To me, that’s an amazing life. Some days I want to shout that from the rooftops. Then the fear creeps in, the one that whispers, “careful, don’t be too much.” So, I quieten it down before anyone else can.

When I say “actually I’m doing amazing” with my whole chest, I watch it make people uncomfortable. Like they were waiting for a simple “I’m fine.”

I don’t do “I’m fine.” Fine is mediocre. Safe. Expected. It’s what I would say if my coffee wasn’t amazing but wasn’t shit. Just fine. No.

I think we’ve become excellent at sitting with people’s pain. I’m not convinced we’re as good at sitting with their joy.

As Kiwis, I think we’ve quietly grown up fluent in tall poppy syndrome. I put a question box on my Instagram asking if people had felt it. The responses flooded in, and the strongest ones came from Kiwis who’d left New Zealand, and from people still in small towns there trying to do big things. Not everyone, but enough that I know I’m not imagining it.

Growing up in small town NZ, I had big dreams. I was loud and excitable. I genuinely believed I could do almost anything. Sometimes that was celebrated. Sometimes I felt the pressure to tone it down.

I’ve since lived in Australia, back to NZ and Bali. I feel the pull to shrink most strongly when I go home. Not because I love New Zealand any less, but because living elsewhere changed me. It opened my mind in ways staying put never would have.

In Bali, people dream loudly. They start businesses over wine. They move countries. They launch ideas that sound ridiculous until they’re real, and nobody bats an eyelid. The response is always “Let’s go.” “What’s the worst that can happen.” “You only live once.”

Bali is where I stopped apologising for my excitement and my “crazy ideas.”

When I go home to NZ, I find myself toning it down before I’ve even spoken. It’s rarely something anyone’s said. More often, it’s the silence. Somewhere in me, I’ve learnt to wonder if I’m being too much.

So, I stop before I start.

Somewhere along the way, I think we started confusing confidence with arrogance. They’re not the same thing. Loving yourself isn’t thinking you’re better than anyone. Being proud of what you’ve built isn’t showing off. Saying “I’m amazing” isn’t a comparison, it’s gratitude.

I’ve worked hard to become someone I genuinely like. That doesn’t mean I think I’m the smartest, prettiest, funniest or most successful person in the room. It means I like who I am. I’m not going to whisper that to make it easier for someone else to swallow.

I think about this because of my daughter too. She’s got a big personality. Loud. Dreams big. My job isn’t to teach her to make herself smaller, so other people feel more comfortable. My job is to raise her kind and confident, because those should never be opposites. The thing that was always going to hurt her wasn’t confidence. It was learning to shrink.

There will always be people who want her smaller. My job isn’t to shield her from that. It’s to teach her not to care.

That’s what I want for her and it’s also what I want for me.

I don’t need permission to be happy. I don’t need you to agree with how I feel about myself. What I do want is a culture that celebrates wins as loudly as it shows up for losses. But I’m not going to wait around for it, and I’m not going to shrink while I wait.

Next time a friend tells you they started a business, got engaged, bought a house, ran a marathon, or simply says “honestly, I’m amazing,” - notice your first reaction.

Is it excitement? Comparison? Skepticism? Envy?

Don’t judge yourself for it. Just get curious about it. If you scrolled past without double-tapping, why? If you thought “who do they think they are,” why? Sit with it for a second. That reaction is telling you something, just maybe not about them.

Here’s what pisses me off: people will double tap, comment, share for a celebrity who doesn’t know we exist and never will. We’ll hype up a stranger’s holiday photos, an influencer’s “perfect” life. But our actual friend, the one we’ve known for years, the one who’d show up for us in a heartbeat, announces something real - and we go quiet. Why is it easier to celebrate someone who would never celebrate us back?

Imagine if we celebrated our friends’ and family’s wins like they were our own. Not a polite like. Not a “so happy for u” insert clapping hands emoji. The real thing, the way you’d want someone to show up for you.

That’s what real support looks like. Not just showing up when someone falls. Showing up just as hard when they win.

So, if someone tells you they’re amazing, believe them. Or don’t. Genuinely, it’s none of your business either way.

But I know what I’ll be doing. Clapping the loudest. Meaning it the most. For the people brave enough to say it out loud.

Kelly writes more like this over on Substack - on joy, motherhood, taking up space and everything else in her very crowded mind.