The Fixer Reflex and Other Lies I Tell Myself

Today started quiet. But my brain? Loud. The kind of loud that sneaks in through the back door with a clipboard and starts taking inventory of every emotional bruise I’ve ever tried to ignore.

Someone I love is being treated poorly at work—again. And my first instinct? Rage. Not empathy. Not curiosity. Just full-body indignation, like I’ve been personally insulted by a stranger I’ve never met. I want to fix it. I want to storm in with a clipboard of my own and start handing out consequences. But that’s not mine to fix, is it?

Here’s the thing: I confuse care with control. I confuse protection with possession. And I confuse my own discomfort with a moral obligation to intervene. But the truth is, grown people get to choose their battles. My job isn’t to fight them all—it’s to ask better questions. Like: How does that make you feel? Or What do you need from me right now?

Therapy reminded me yesterday that I react fast and think slow. That manipulation isn’t always malicious—it’s sometimes just survival dressed up in people-pleasing. And that boundaries aren’t walls, they’re filters. I’m learning to spot the difference between being helpful and being hijacked.

I feel pressure to fix everything. To be the financial safety net, the emotional sponge, the workplace diplomat. But no one handed me that job description—I wrote it myself. And I can rewrite it.

Yes, I’ve been burned. Yes, I’ve been let down. But not everyone is out to exploit me. That’s the fear talking. That’s the part of me that thinks being taken advantage of once means I’ll never be safe again.

So today, I’m practicing something radical: letting people be responsible for themselves. I’m still here. Still loving. Still fierce. But I’m not the cleanup crew for other people’s chaos.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.