The Day I Didn’t Fix Anything

I used to believe love looked like fixing.

Fixing the problem. Fixing the mood. Fixing the silence before it became awkward.

I was good at it too. People came to me when things fell apart, when decisions needed to be made quickly, when emotions spilled without warning. I learned early that being useful made me safe.

So I fixed. I smoothed. I carried.

What I didn’t notice was how rarely I was still.

The moment that changed me didn’t come during a crisis. It came on an ordinary afternoon, the kind that usually disappears.

Someone I love was talking—slowly, carefully—about something that hurt. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just honestly.

I felt the familiar urge rise in my chest: say something wise, offer perspective, lighten the heaviness. Do something.

But before I could, they paused. And in that pause, I saw it: they weren’t asking for answers. They were asking for space.

So I did something that felt almost irresponsible.

I didn’t fix anything.

I stayed quiet. I softened my shoulders. I let the silence stretch without filling it.

At first, it was uncomfortable. My mind raced, scanning for the right response, the helpful insight, the reassurance that would tie everything up neatly.

But then something unexpected happened.

They kept talking.

And as they did, the air changed. The room felt gentler, less braced. Their voice steadied— not because the problem was solved, but because it was finally being held.

That’s when I realized how much of my life I had spent interrupting tenderness with competence.

I had mistaken being needed for being present.

That day, nothing was resolved. No plan was made. No lesson was wrapped in a bow.

But something else happened instead.

We both exhaled.

Since then, I’ve been practicing a quieter kind of care.

I ask myself: What if I don’t rush to make this better? What if I trust that listening is already doing something?

Tenderness, I’m learning, isn’t fragile because it’s weak. It’s fragile because it requires restraint.

It asks us to stay when we could perform. To listen when we could advise. To witness when we could control.

Now, when I feel the urge to fix, I pause. Sometimes I place my hand on my chest—just to remind myself that being here is enough.

And more often than not, it is.

You don’t have to be useful to be worthy of care.