Confessions of a "fixer"

I’m still training myself not to run into burning buildings. To fill my well before I try to put out someone else’s fire.

Dear Readers, this letter is a reflection of some tender layers of grief I’m still unpeeling. I want to honor your heart by letting you know when I discuss death or loss. If this is not the right time for you to share this space with me, please be gentle with yourself. Come back another day or check out some letters from the archive. I promise they’re not all heavy!

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There are a lot of names for it. Professionally, I am called a nurse. In my family, the eldest daughter. One of my therapists called it, “over-functioning.” I’ve used “recovering perfectionist,” from time to time.

I like to, need to fix things. Mostly, people. Broken-hearted ones, down-and-out ones, people that are houseless, hungry, fighting systems of oppression. I am known to hand out bandaids and snacks and affirmations like they will save the world.

Street art in Puyo, Ecuador 2012

Ah, savior complex. That’s another one. 

I’m still training myself not to run into burning buildings. To fill my well before I try to put out someone else’s fire. To understand the difference between collective and individual responsibility. It’s a work in progress. 

Street art in Iceland, 2017

I’m a work in progress.

Last week, I had some support from a somatic grief/trauma counselor. I told her about a recent nightmare I’d had- one where I was trying to call 911 but wasn’t able to dial the last “one.” In my dream, I felt trapped and helpless. 

What do you do if you call 911 and they still can’t help? What if you can’t fix what’s broken? 

I was the one who drove my Dad to the Emergency Room after his heart attack. Over the next twelve days, he received the best, life-giving care in the world. And it still wasn’t enough.

“If Only..” by Angeles Salinas, seen at the Mexic-Arte Museum in Austin, TX 2023

This is probably the most unforgivable example of when I could not fix something, but there have been other times, too. Break-ups I couldn’t repair, patients that died on my watch, friendships that faded. I am drawn to these experiences like a moth to a flame.

Often, when things are out of my control, I blame myself. I can spend hours, days, years, re-visiting the situation, finding the “fault” in my actions, and vowing never to repeat the same mistake. If there is a lesson to be learned, I’m back behind the wheel.

Except, life doesn’t exactly work that way, does it?

California coast, 2015

As I sat in a teal-colored office in the suburbs, my new counselor asked me to stay with the “yucky” feeling of not being able to call for help. Of not being able to fix losing my Dad.

I replayed that day at the hospital, sitting alone in a pandemic waiting room, my Dad in surgery. And I saw the helpers. The chaplain with her hand on my shoulder as I shook with sobs. Another woman, offering me her package of M&M’s as the hours dragged on. The nurse who shaved my Dad’s beard around the intubation tubes. 

Beautiful sculpture in Avignon, France 2013

They couldn’t fix it. They couldn’t save him. But their presence mattered. It counted for something.

Maybe I can start letting that be enough. 

Dear One.

Are you a fixer?

Does this song by Sleeping At Last make you cry? No, just me?

How do you handle situations that are out of your control? When do you know when it’s time to walk away?

I’d love to learn from your experiences! Share your story below.