“It’s Okay to Not Be Okay” — A Story That Stays With You
There are shows that entertain… and then there are stories that stay.
It’s Okay to Not Be Okay wasn’t just something I watched — it was something I felt.
From the very first episode, I knew this K-drama wasn’t going to be just another slow burn with a cute couple and a quirky twist. No — this was different. It peeled back the skin of the psyche and exposed the bruises we often hide, while still making me laugh through my tears. And that last episode? It had me weeping and cackling all at once. It was a chaotic, cathartic masterpiece.
The Plot Twist That Broke Me Open
The reveal that Ko Moon-young’s mother was actually the “nice” nurse — that moment had my jaw on the floor. It was shocking, but also so well-placed, so earned. That twist reframed the entire story. Her mother murdered his. Her father believed he had killed his wife. And yet somehow, she survived — watching him suffer for 20 years in a twisted, diabolical punishment. Unforgivable… yet deeply human. Justified? Maybe. But healing? Absolutely not. And that tension is what makes this drama so profound.
It didn’t just tell a love story. It told a generational story. A karmic one. A story of consequences — of what happens when pain is left to rot in the dark instead of being held in the light.
Seeing Myself in the Younger Brother
The character that felt most like me? The younger brother. He was the silent glue. The one carrying everyone’s grief, making sure the house didn’t fall down. He was overlooked — not out of malice, but because he was the “stable” one. And at the end, when his autistic brother found his independence, he was finally allowed to seek his own joy.
That part hit hard.
Because in my own life, that kind of freedom may never come. My mother won’t suddenly become independent. If anything, her needs will only grow. But I’ve made peace with that. Watching him let go gave me comfort — a kind of vicarious healing. It reminded me that even in small, quiet ways, I can still weave my own happiness. Even if it’s in micro-doses. And that’s enough. That’s something.
Mental Health, Community, and Tenderness
I adored the way this drama handled mental health — especially the portrayal of the autistic character. His acting was phenomenal. So good, in fact, that I don’t think of him as an actor playing a role — I just think of him. He brought a humanity to autism that felt layered, raw, and full of dignity.
And that scene — when the male lead made sure Ko Moon-young wouldn’t be alone when he moved out — my god. That was the kind of deep care that leaves an imprint. He called in everyone — her publisher, his best friend, the landlady… anyone who could help — to make sure she wouldn’t spiral. It reminded me of the proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child.” In that moment, she became the child. And the village showed up.
That sense of community… I’ve had it before. Back in my home country, in the warmth of my childhood. But here, now? It’s harder. I can’t be consistent with others while caring for my mother. So I miss out. But again — I’ve made peace with that. I’ve experienced it once, and that memory alone keeps me warm on cold days.
The Ice Queen Aries and the Air Sign Caretaker
Ko Moon-young — the Aries Ice Queen with razor-sharp edges and a clingy inner child — reminded me so much of my own mother. Emotionally chaotic, intense, impossible to ignore… and yet so deeply wounded. Their resemblance was eerie. And then the male lead (an Aquarius, of course) — he felt like me. Air sign. Caretaker. Not cowardly, just chronically burdened with everyone else’s emotional survival.
Sometimes we don’t realize we’re the glue until we start to crack.
Storytelling as Soul Retrieval
And that final story she published? The one that mirrored everyone’s healing? That was the moment I broke. Because children’s books — simple, unassuming — often hold the deepest truths. And I never got to grow up with them. No Disney. No Harry Potter. No fairytales. I was raised in a strict, religious household where imagination wasn’t allowed.
So now, as an adult, I watch these stories with a kind of reverence. They feed something I didn’t even know was starving: my inner child. And I’ve fallen in love with K-dramas and world cinema because they don’t just entertain — they repair. They develop my emotional vocabulary. They give me permission to be soft. To feel deeply. To remember what magic feels like.
It’s Okay to Not Be Okay reminded me that stories can save us. That healing doesn’t always look like closure — sometimes it looks like community, or a simple act of care, or letting yourself feel joy while holding grief in the other hand.
This drama didn’t just stay with me. It changed me.
And maybe that’s what good storytelling is supposed to do.
What’s a show or story that stayed with you long after the credits rolled?
Let me know in the comments or tag me in your own reflection.
