What’s Mine to Fix (and What’s Not)

Not long ago, my therapist asked me a simple question that hit like a lightning bolt:
“But is that really yours to fix?”

It stopped me in my tracks.
Because the truth is, I hadn’t even realized how much I was carrying—emotionally, energetically, mentally. Other people’s stress. Their struggles. Their expectations.
And underneath it all, this quiet, constant urgency to make things better. To ease the discomfort. To be helpful. Useful. Necessary.

But that question? It’s been echoing in the background of my life ever since.

What’s mine to fix?
And maybe more importantly—what isn’t?

My Husband’s Journey

Jim is navigating a complicated season of life—aging hips, health challenges, a demanding work schedule. And I love him with everything I’ve got. Of course, I want to protect him. Of cours,e I want to ease his load.

But he’s a grown-ass man.
And it’s not my job to manage his calendar, monitor his energy, or make his choices for him.

I can nudge. I can suggest. I can love him fiercely and create space for rest.
But I can’t carry his decisions. I can’t worry them into solutions.
Worry helps no one. It only drains us both.

So I remind myself, again and again: This is not mine to fix.

The Cat Under the Porch

Recently, I discovered a cat trapped under our porch.
That, I can fix.
And I did.

Through fear and trepidation—on both our parts—we figured it out.

The Power of Holding Space

Friends come with heavy things. Marriage struggles. Kid worries. Exhaustion. Career transitions. Loss.

Old me might’ve jumped in with strategies and solutions. I would’ve brainstormed, fixed, cheered, rewritten the script.

But I’m learning something quieter now.

Most people don’t need advice.
They don’t want their problems solved.
They want to be seen.
To say things out loud and let them land.
To be held, not handled.

So I’m practicing presence. Practicing listening without leaping in.
Practicing letting people sit with their own wisdom.
It’s harder than it sounds—and more powerful than I ever realized.

Back at Work, New Eyes

After a six-week break to recover from burnout and caregiver fatigue, I came back to work with new eyes.

The pace hadn’t changed—but I had.
I noticed the quiet fatigue in my colleagues. The stress humming beneath the surface. The little signs I once ignored—now I couldn’t unsee them.

I wanted to help. Step in. Ease the load.
But I know myself better now. I know that rescuing everyone else is a fast track to losing myself.

So I’ve been watching. Waiting. Listening.

There are so many places I could jump in. But I won’t do it at the cost of my own well-being. Not again. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way. I’ve become fiercely protective of my calendar and my energy.

I’m learning to trust that when it is mine to act, I’ll know. I’ll feel it. My instincts will rise.

(A book I’m loving right now, Instinct by T.D. Jake’s echoes this beautifully—how tuning in to your gut can guide you toward your purpose, and away from distractions that drain you.)

The Gentle Art of Letting Go

So for now, I’m not rushing in.
I’m not carrying what isn’t mine.
I’m choosing trust over tension. Space over saving.

I trust that what’s mine to fix will be clear.
That the people I love are capable of finding their way.
That I don’t have to do it all to be of value.
And that life will keep unfolding in its own sacred time.

One breath, one boundary, one brave choice at a time.

©2025 Lori Ann King