These days, I usually give a simple “How are you?” — a big fat lie of a response.

Because when I say “great,” I’m really watching as the asker’s face inevitably turns into that of a waggling-fingered professor or an unfinished job application or a summer transcript request I forgot to mail.

I save the honest answers for my mother, who listens to me babble on about my frightening workload, my impending jobless future and how the only time I can catch my breath is between 5 p.m. Friday till bed Sunday night.

And Ma, bless her heart, never fails to help me realign my priorities and make me realize, at least for five minutes, that my problems are pretty insignificant in large scope of things.

“You have all your arms and legs, right?” she always asks, reminding me just how lucky I really am. I don’t ever fear for my life and I’ve never had to worry where my next meal came from; even if, God forbid, I spend a few months of post-graduate unemployment back at home, my family will be more than happy to have me.

Although somewhere deep down I suppose I knew all of this, I end up at a loss for the breezy, carefree self I was just last year, when I could shrug off the occasional bad grade or spat with a friend — problems that I then felt had consequences of apocalyptic proportions. Even things I usually find therapeutic — writing my column, for instance — made me feel like I was standing in the shadow of a huge piano about to fall on my head.

I’m going to simplify: In three words, I was stressed.

It was early Monday morning in a week when I decided I was finally ready to escape the stress once and for all — or at least stave it off for a few months. So I made the call to see a counselor. And though I didn’t want to, I went.

The first time I sat down with a counselor, I got about as far as a sincere “How are you doing?” before the big, fat obnoxious tears erupted. I was literally sputtering like a broken engine. It was kind of horrifying. There was no real reason for it. Out came everything ranging from mild to major significance — in liquid form. And even though it was mortifying, it felt good. It felt honest.

I was a little scared it would happen again during my second visit, but when I went this week, I felt a little more lighthearted and a lot more dry-eyed. And when we went through some of the things we talked about last week, I heard myself say, “I have trouble remembering that I’ll be totally fine even when I screw up.”

Though I don’t know how realistic it is visualizing myself on the beach looking at a sailboat thing, I have learned some things: Stress is normal. Stress can be good — it’s what keeps us working hard and staying up late to study and strive for success. Stress keeps us out of the bar seven nights a week and off our parent’s couches. But too much stress — the crying-like-a-newborn kind — will only make us miserable.

The bottom line, I realized, is this: I don’t want my memories of senior year to consist of me sitting by myself every night at my usual Espresso Royale table until close time with a fizzling caffeine buzz and a to-do list that will never have everything checked off. I want my memories to consist of my best friends’ faces, sitting on the Quad on sunny days and feeling light while my responsibilities in life are still relatively inconsequential.

I won’t ever be able to change my ever-present desire to succeed or my fear of screwing up. I know I’m not the only one that has tests and papers and all-nighters and stress. But I think we all deserve to be a little less hard on ourselves. And when someone asks, “How are you doing?” We should say, “Great.” And really mean it.

_Megan is a senior in Media._