When Listening Is a Luxury and Fixing Is a Reflex

Some days I don’t want to talk to people. Not because I’m angry. Not because I’m tired. But because I already know how the conversation will go: someone will tell me what I should think, how I should feel, and what I should do. And all I really want is for someone to listen. To sit in the silence with me and wait until I ask for their opinion.

I had a disagreement recently. I wasn’t looking for advice—I was trying to explain a theory. But instead of curiosity, I got correction. And I do it too. I fix things. I preempt problems. Not because I’m noble, but because fixing is less exhausting than cleaning up the mess later.

Take hospital billing. A masterpiece of chaos. Too many hands, too little accountability, and a system that calls its negligence “mistakes.” I don’t buy it. When I got sick, we didn’t pay the bills. Now I’m dealing with the fallout, and suddenly the system has questions. Suddenly I’m the problem.

I’ve made mistakes. I own that. But I also know what it feels like to be punished for being human in a system that profits off confusion. I get paid to do a job, but half the time I’m not sure what that job is. Keep things running? Keep people from asking questions? Keep myself from unraveling?

I try not to make things too easy for people. Because ease invites exploitation. And I’m tired of being the one who sees the manipulation only after it’s already done its damage.

Maybe I’m in the wrong job. Maybe I’m in the wrong rhythm. Maybe I’m just tired of being the one who thinks ahead while everyone else gets to coast.

But here’s what I know: I’m not wrong for wanting clarity. I’m not wrong for wanting to be heard. And I’m not wrong for asking whether the role I’ve been handed is the one I actually want to play.