There was a time in my life when I thought love meant rescuing. That to truly care about someone, you had to solve their problems, carry their burdens, and shelter them from every storm. It came from a good place — a desire to protect, to help, to provide comfort. But what I didn’t realize then was that this kind of love, when driven by fear and urgency, can quietly drain both people involved.
I remember a specific chapter with my ex, someone I cared about deeply. She was going through an incredibly difficult period. Depressed, lost, and carrying a heavy emotional load. Watching someone you love suffer like that — it does something to you. It broke me open in ways I didn’t expect.
I tried to fix everything. I gave her money to cover her bills, enrolled her in courses I thought would help, handled the logistics, and essentially took on every single responsibility I could. At one point, I covered all her expenses. Not because she asked me to — she didn’t. But because I couldn’t bear to see her suffer. I proposed to her, partly to give her emotional and immigration security, thinking I could fast-forward the pain, wrap everything in a neat little solution.
But I wasn’t listening to the part of me that was overwhelmed. The part of me that was scared, tired, and unready. My nervous system was screaming, but I ignored it in the name of being a savior.
What I realize now — painfully and beautifully — is that she didn’t need fixing. She needed love. Presence. Comfort. She needed me to just be there. To feel with her, not solve for her.
This story, in hindsight, is a clear mirror of how I’ve approached my own emotions too. The urge to “fix” things quickly. To control what feels uncomfortable. To run from the heaviness instead of sitting in it.
And that’s what I’m learning to do differently now.
When big emotions come up — regret, fear, sadness, confusion — I no longer rush to clean them up. I don’t try to make sense of them in my head right away. I sit. I breathe. I feel. I let them move through me, without assigning meaning or judgment. And slowly, clarity starts to return. Not always immediately, but eventually. Always.
This lesson is shaping everything in my life right now — from how I navigate relationships, to how I move through this transition of leaving my job, to how I hold myself through uncertainty.
The art of not fixing isn’t about doing nothing — it’s about doing the right thing: being there. With others. With ourselves. With what’s real.
I’m still learning. Still fumbling. But I’m finally listening.
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