Movie Recommendation: Everybody’s Fine (2009)

 

#DebraAndValerieMovieRecommendation

Everybody’s Fine (2009)

When I finished watching Everybody’s Fine (2009), starring Robert De Niro, I found myself sitting in silence for a while, trying to process what I had just seen. The movie isn’t flashy. It doesn’t rely on twists or grand spectacle. Instead, it lingers quietly, like a soft echo in the heart, leaving you with the kind of ache that feels both tender and painful. And yet, I loved it. I loved it precisely because it broke my heart in that subtle, human way.

At its core, the film tells the story of Frank Goode, a widowed father who sets out on a journey to reconnect with his grown children after they fail to show up for a family gathering. Frank has spent most of his life working hard, laying telephone cables coated with PVC that left his lungs scarred, to provide for his family. Like so many parents of his generation, he believed that his sacrifice and his encouragement for his children to “aim high” would translate into closeness, love, and gratitude. But life, as the film gently reveals, rarely works out so neatly.

Robert De Niro gives Frank a kind of quiet dignity mixed with a fragility that’s hard to ignore. He’s not portrayed as a perfect father, nor as an overly flawed one. Instead, he’s deeply human—someone who did the best he could, who wanted his children to succeed, but who also unintentionally built walls between himself and them. Watching him struggle to bridge that distance stirred something in me.

I think what makes this film so powerful is how it reflects a truth many of us live but rarely admit: families often function on half-truths and reassurances. “Everybody’s fine” becomes a shield, a phrase that covers up disappointments, struggles, and even heartbreaks. In the movie, Frank’s children are far from “fine.” They’re carrying burdens they don’t want their father to see. They protect him with silence and omissions, not realizing that their distance hurts him more than the truth ever could.

That theme made me reflect on my own relationships—with my parents, with my children, with those I hold close. How often do I say “I’m okay” when I’m not? How often do I downplay my struggles because I don’t want to worry the people I love? And in return, how often do I accept “I’m fine” from someone without really digging deeper, without asking again, without making the effort to see past the façade?

There’s a quiet sadness that runs through this film, but it isn’t melodramatic. It feels real. There are no explosive fights or over-the-top confrontations. Instead, the sadness seeps in through missed connections, through the small, awkward silences between a father and his children, through the realization that time has slipped away while everyone was busy living their own lives. That subtlety is what made it hit me so hard—it felt less like a movie and more like holding up a mirror to the quiet regrets we all carry.

As Frank travels from city to city, trying to piece together the truth about his children, I couldn’t help but think of my own father and mother. How well do I truly know them—not just as parents, but as people with their own struggles, their own hidden battles? And in the same breath, how well do my children know me? Have I been fully honest with them about who I am, about my own vulnerabilities? Or do I, too, hide behind “everything’s fine” because it feels safer?

One of the most poignant things the film reminded me of is how easy it is to take family for granted. We assume there will always be time—time to visit, time to talk, time to repair relationships. But time has a way of running out. Watching Frank’s journey, I thought about moments I let slip by, about phone calls I could have made but didn’t, about conversations I postponed for another day. The film is a gentle but firm reminder that “another day” isn’t promised.

It also made me think about the weight parents carry. Frank wanted his children to succeed, to become more than he was, to live brighter and fuller lives than his own. But that pressure, even though it came from love, became a source of distance. His children didn’t want to disappoint him, so they hid their failures. How many of us have done the same? Pretended our lives were better than they were because we couldn’t bear the thought of letting someone down? That dynamic resonated with me deeply because it’s not just a movie trope—it’s real life.

What I admire most about Everybody’s Fine is that it doesn’t offer easy resolutions. It doesn’t tie everything up neatly with a bow. Instead, it leaves you with a bittersweet understanding: families are complicated, love is imperfect, and connection requires effort—sometimes effort we don’t realize we need to make until it’s too late. The film doesn’t scream this lesson at you; it whispers it. And somehow, that whisper stays with you long after the credits roll.

By the time the movie ended, I felt a strange mix of heaviness and hope. Heaviness, because it reminded me of the fragility of family bonds and the pain of disconnection. Hope, because it also reminded me that it’s not too late to change, not too late to reach out, not too late to say what needs to be said.

After watching, I found myself wanting to pick up the phone, to call someone I hadn’t spoken to in too long, to check in beyond the superficial “I’m fine.” I wanted to sit down with my children and have deeper conversations, the kind that go beyond the safe updates about school or work. The film stirred something in me that felt like both a wound and a gift: the wound of recognizing my own missed connections, and the gift of realizing I still have time to mend them.

In the end, Everybody’s Fine is not just a movie about a father and his children. It’s a movie about all of us. It’s about the lies we tell to protect each other, the silence that grows in the space between generations, and the longing we all share to be truly known by the people we love. It’s about regret, but also about the possibility of reconnection—if we’re brave enough to face the truth.

It may not be a blockbuster or a film that wins awards for spectacle, but it’s one of the most honest movies I’ve seen in a long time. And honesty, I think, is far rarer and more powerful than flash.

So if you’ve ever felt disconnected from family, if you’ve ever struggled to bridge the gap between generations, if you’ve ever said “I’m fine” when you weren’t, I think you’ll find something in Everybody’s Fine that speaks to you. It’s not just a story—it’s a mirror. And it’s a reminder that the time to connect, the time to show up, the time to say how you feel, is now.

Because sometimes, “everybody’s fine” is the furthest thing from the truth.

What skills do you want to develop, and how can you start working on them today?

 

When I think about the skills I want to develop, I don’t just picture a résumé or a checklist of competencies that might impress someone else. Instead, I think about the qualities that will make my life more meaningful, fulfilling, and aligned with who I really want to be. Skills, to me, are not just tools for a career but also instruments for living with purpose. They shape the way I interact with people, handle challenges, and even how I see myself. The older I get, the clearer it becomes that some of the most valuable skills are not flashy or easily measurable, but rather deeply personal and long-lasting.

One of the first skills I want to develop is patience. I’ve always had a tendency to want things to happen quickly. Whether it’s waiting for results, learning something new, or even dealing with people, I find myself struggling when things take longer than I expect. Patience isn’t just about waiting without complaint—it’s about being fully present in the waiting. I’ve noticed that the times when I lose patience are also the times when I miss out on small details or lessons that could have helped me. Developing patience means learning to slow down, breathe, and remind myself that not everything needs to happen on my timeline. I can start working on this today simply by being mindful in daily routines: waiting for my coffee to brew without reaching for my phone, listening fully when someone is talking instead of preparing my response, or practicing deep breathing when I feel restless. It’s a small start, but small habits build strong skills over time.

Another skill I want to strengthen is communication, not just in terms of speaking clearly but also in listening with intent. I’ve realized that so much of good communication comes from listening—really listening—without interrupting or planning my next line. It sounds simple, but it’s harder than it seems. Too often I catch myself half-hearing what someone is saying because my mind is already racing ahead. To work on this, I’ve been trying to put my phone aside when having conversations, making eye contact, and repeating back what I’ve understood before responding. Writing also helps me refine my communication. Keeping a journal, jotting down my thoughts, and even writing essays like this one allow me to structure my ideas more clearly. By practicing both verbal and written communication every day, I can become better at expressing myself in ways that connect rather than just inform.

I also want to cultivate resilience. Life has taught me, sometimes harshly, that things will not always go as planned. Losses, setbacks, and disappointments come when least expected, and while I cannot stop them, I can choose how to respond. Resilience doesn’t mean pretending I’m unaffected, but rather, it’s about allowing myself to feel the weight of challenges while still believing that I can stand back up. This is a skill I’ve been building slowly, especially after personal losses that shook me deeply. Working on resilience starts today by reframing how I see difficulties—not as punishments, but as opportunities to grow stronger and more compassionate. It’s about telling myself, “This hurts, but it won’t break me.” Building resilience also means leaning on healthy habits like exercise, prayer, journaling, and talking to loved ones instead of isolating myself when times get tough.

Another important skill for me is time management. With so many responsibilities pulling me in different directions, I often feel like time slips away faster than I can hold it. I’ve learned that good time management isn’t about filling every minute with tasks, but rather about prioritizing what matters most. I want to be more intentional with how I spend my time—balancing work with rest, productivity with creativity, and responsibility with joy. To begin improving this today, I can start with small but impactful practices like setting daily priorities, breaking big tasks into manageable steps, and giving myself realistic timelines. It also means saying “no” when I need to, without guilt. The skill of managing time is really about managing energy and focus, and learning to protect them.

I also feel drawn to develop empathy. The world can be harsh and fast-moving, and it’s easy to forget the silent struggles others carry. Empathy is the skill that allows me to slow down, to notice, to feel with others rather than just for them. It’s not about having solutions for everyone but about being present and kind. I can start practicing empathy by asking deeper questions, truly listening, and putting myself in someone else’s shoes. Even simple gestures—sending a message to check on a friend, or offering patience to someone who’s short-tempered—can strengthen this skill. It’s one of those abilities that not only makes me a better person but also strengthens every relationship I have.

Finally, I want to sharpen my skill of self-discipline. Dreams and goals are important, but without the discipline to follow through, they remain dreams. Self-discipline is about showing up even when I don’t feel like it, about keeping promises I make to myself, and about building consistency. Whether it’s waking up early, sticking to an exercise routine, or finishing a project on time, self-discipline fuels progress. Today, I can work on this by setting one non-negotiable task for myself and completing it before I allow distractions to take over. Over time, these small daily disciplines become habits, and habits shape character.

Looking at all these skills together, I realize that they overlap and support each other. Patience strengthens communication. Resilience reinforces self-discipline. Empathy enriches relationships. Time management makes space for all of it. None of these can be mastered overnight, but that’s not the point. The point is to start—today, with what I have, where I am. Skills are like muscles; the more I use them, the stronger they become.

In the end, the skills I want to develop are not just about achievement but about becoming a fuller version of myself. They help me navigate the world with more grace, connect with others more deeply, and face life’s unpredictability with courage. And while the journey of developing these skills may take years, the work begins right now, in the smallest of choices—listening instead of interrupting, showing compassion instead of judgment, choosing focus instead of distraction. It’s a lifelong practice, but one worth dedicating myself to, because the person I become tomorrow depends on the effort I make today.

When Joy and Sorrow Collide: My (A Mother's) Reflection on the Minnesota Tragedy

 

On August 27, 2025, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, during what should have been the gentle beginnings of a new school year, tragedy struck with a cruelty so unimaginable that the entire world felt the tremors of its sorrow. At the Annunciation Catholic Church, where children and their families gathered for an all-school Mass, a scene that should have been filled with prayer, song, and the comfort of faith was shattered by gunfire. Parents had sent their little ones to school that morning with the same trust that generations before them had held—that classrooms and chapels were sanctuaries, places of learning and worship where children could thrive without fear. But that day, as sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows, bullets rained down instead. A gunman, armed with a rifle, a shotgun, and a pistol, opened fire on innocent worshippers. The stillness of prayer was replaced by screams, shattered glass, and the chaos of violence.

Two children—8-year-old Fletcher Merkel and 10-year-old Harper Moyski—lost their lives in that instant. Fourteen more children, ranging in age from 6 to 15, were wounded, along with three elderly parishioners who had come to Mass that morning. Though doctors say the survivors will recover physically, everyone knows the deeper truth: the emotional and spiritual scars left behind may never fade. A community that gathered in faith was left broken in fear. Parents who sent their children to school to grow in faith and knowledge instead had to face the unimaginable task of identifying bodies, of watching their children cling to life in hospital beds, of holding hands that might never be the same again.

I heard this news on the very same day my daughter Lani received her certificate of proof of loss of U.S. citizenship. I can still see the joy radiating from her face as she clutched that document at the U.S. Consulate. For her, it was not just a piece of paper; it was liberation, a final step toward closing one chapter and embracing another. She was so relieved, so happy, and I felt that same relief with her—like we had walked into a safer, freer space. Yet, at almost the same moment, news broke from Minnesota that children—just like her once upon a time—were dragged into the depths of terror and violence while sitting in church, of all places. How cruel life can be, to let me watch my daughter rejoice in freedom while other parents were being crushed under grief. My heart broke wide open for them. Their joy had been stolen. Their futures altered in a blink. I could not stop praying for them then, and I cannot stop now.

When I try to imagine what those grieving parents must be going through, I almost cannot bear it. To lose a child—your heart, your hope, your flesh and blood—is unthinkable. Even picturing it for a second makes my chest tighten. To know your child will never again run into your arms, laugh at your table, or make their dreams known—that is the kind of grief that breaks a person into pieces. And for those parents whose children survived but are now scarred, physically or emotionally, the pain takes a different but equally cruel shape. The helplessness must be overwhelming: sitting beside a hospital bed, watching monitors beep, hoping, begging, that your child makes it through. It is enough to undo anyone. If anything like that happened to my own children, I would be a basket case. I would crumble entirely. My world would lose all meaning.

And it is precisely because of that awareness—the fragility of children’s safety in America—that I am grateful beyond words that Ed and I made a promise early in our marriage. When we were still living in America, before our children were born, we looked at the world around us and quietly agreed: if we were ever blessed with children, we would return to Singapore before they reached school age. We wanted them to grow up safe, to have the kind of childhood every parent dreams of for their child—one free from fear. By God’s grace, we were able to keep that promise. When our oldest was ready to start kindergarten, we packed up our lives and crossed the globe. It wasn’t an easy decision—no move of that magnitude ever is—but it was the best one we ever made.

In Singapore, I never had to wake up to nightmares about school shootings. I never had to worry about sending my daughter off to school and wondering if she would return alive. I never had to fear my teenage daughter walking home after dark, or my son being kidnapped in broad daylight. I never had to think about bullet-proof backpacks or evacuation drills designed to prepare children for gunfire. I never feared that a casual trip to the mall could end with us caught in a shooting spree. My children had the gift of being children—innocent, carefree, and safe. They laughed, played, and grew without the heavy burden of worry hanging over them. I cannot express enough gratitude for that. Every time a tragedy like this appears in the news, I thank God we made that move when we did. And yet, even in my gratitude, I weep for the countless families who did not and do not have that option.

It is devastating to think that in a country like America—wealthy, powerful, and proud—children are being taught how to survive school shootings. That parents shop for bullet-proof inserts as though they were just another school supply, as normal as pencils and notebooks. That little children practice lockdown drills instead of simply learning how to read and write. What kind of life is that? What kind of society accepts this as normal? Children should be learning multiplication tables, not survival tactics. They should be giggling at recess, not hiding in closets and trying to stay silent in the face of simulated gunfire. It is wrong. It is heartbreaking. And it should not be tolerated any longer.

This is why my heart burns with both sorrow and frustration. I cannot help but ask: if leaders like Donald Trump can bend amendments and policies to benefit themselves, why has no one in power had the courage to truly confront the Second Amendment? Why has no one said, “Enough is enough,” and pushed for real change? The right to bear arms should never outweigh the right of a child to live. It should never be placed above the sanctity of innocent lives. If Australia could act after one tragedy and abolish guns, why can’t America? If other countries around the world can create safer environments by placing limits on weapons of war, why can’t the supposed “land of the free” do the same? How many more children need to die before something changes?

The problem is not unsolvable. It requires courage, compassion, and the willingness to prioritize people over politics. It requires waking up to the reality that no amendment, no lobby, no right to carry a weapon is more sacred than the life of a child sitting in a pew, holding hands in prayer, or laughing in a classroom. America needs to wake up. Wake up to the blood on its streets, the tears in its classrooms, the fear in its families. Wake up before another Fletcher, another Harper, is taken too soon.

As a mother, as a Catholic, and as a human being, I pray fervently for healing—for the children who survived, for the parents who lost their precious ones, for the teachers, priests, and communities scarred by this horror. I pray that those families are surrounded by love and comfort, that God cradles them in their sorrow, and that they somehow find the strength to carry on. I pray also for America itself—that this tragedy not be just another headline that fades, but a turning point that awakens leaders and citizens alike to demand change.

Every life lost is a call to conscience. Every tear shed is a plea for reform. Every innocent child’s name should be remembered not just with grief, but with action. I may live far from America now, and my children may never have to practice those lockdown drills, but I will never stop praying for the ones who do. I will never stop lifting up those families in my heart. And I will never stop urging America: wake up. Let this be the moment when words turn into action, when prayers are matched with policy, when love for children finally outweighs love for guns.

Until then, I hold my children close, grateful for their safety but mindful of the pain others carry. I whisper prayers for Fletcher, for Harper, for every wounded child, and for every parent shattered by loss. And I pray for a future where no parent, in America or anywhere else, ever has to fear that sending their child to school or church could be the last goodbye.