by Emil O. Foofnick
There comes a moment—usually later than you’d like, and never with much warning—when the fixer in you has to lay down the wrench. Maybe it’s during a long night when sleep won’t come. Maybe it’s while you’re standing in the kitchen, stirring a pot you forgot you were making. But you hit it: the thing you can’t fix.
And if you’re the kind of person who’s built a life around patching, solving, showing up with tools in your hand and a plan in your pocket… well, that realization hits like a hard wind to the chest.
The mountain’s too steep. The path’s washed out. And the map? Soggy and smudged, more doodle than direction.
Now, here’s what I’ve learned, knee-deep in these kinds of days: when you can’t fix it, you shift your job description. From solver to stayer. From rescuer to companion. From plan-maker to presence-keeper.
And you start with something small and true. Three things. Real ones. Something like:
“I’m in this room. The kettle’s humming. My feet are cold.”
That’s enough. Now you’re here—and here is where the handles live.
Then breathe. Just six slow ones. Let the exhale be longer than the inhale. That tells your body, “You’re safe enough to soften.”
Then ask yourself the only question that matters when the big questions won’t budge:
“What’s the next kind thing I can do?” Not the smartest thing. Not the most impressive or efficient. Just kind. And small.
Maybe it’s calling your sister. Maybe it’s checking in on a friend. Maybe it’s mowing the grass, or washing yesterday’s dishes. All of it counts. Especially when you’d rather be swinging the big tools on a problem that refuses to budge.
Now—this next part is the glue: Write down one worry that keeps circling. Just one.
Then, right below it, write one thing—just one—that you can do today.
That shift, right there? That’s the fixer finding a new trade.
And when all that’s done, when the sky starts to press in and your heart’s got no more compartments left to sort it all… you send something.
If you’re someone who prays, then pray. Not a polished speech. Just something plain:
“Be with them. Be with me. Help us not fall apart today.”
And if prayer isn’t your path—if that door was never yours to knock on, or you’ve walked away from it—you can still send the message. A breath with their name in it. A moment of quiet where you hold their face in your mind. A simple wish, sent like a paper boat across the water.
Because here’s what I know like I know my own hands:
It’s not about the messenger.
Prayer, good vibes, whispered intentions—
they all take different roads,
but they arrive at the same place.
They land in the space between despair and daylight.
They show up as a steadier breath,
a softened tone,
a reminder that no one is ever truly alone when they’re being thought of.
So you light the candle.
You send the text.
You drop off the soup.
Or you just close your eyes and say, “Hold them.”
And someone, somewhere, will.
You didn’t fix it. But you didn’t let it go untouched. And that—my fellow fixer—is sacred work.
That’s all I have to say; I will say no more.
—Emil O. Foofnick
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