I Am Broken, Please Don’t Fix Me

Our conventional thoughts on self-care often center around renewal—resetting, improving, becoming better. But what if, for some, self-care isn’t about transformation, but survival? At first, I saw this story as one of self-destruction, a slow unraveling. But now, I understand it differently. This journey isn’t about recklessness—it’s about preservation. Sometimes, holding onto pain feels safer than letting it go. Healing, though noble, can be overwhelming. The weight of it, the expectation of change, the confrontation with wounds long buried—it all feels too much. And so, this is not a story of fixing or being fixed. It’s a story of existing in the only way that feels possible right now…

I have always known something was missing—a hollow space inside me that no amount of love, success, or validation could fill. I have carried this emptiness for as long as I can remember, long before I had words to explain it.

I was a child who grew up in shadows, craving warmth but never truly knowing it. My parents were present in body but absent in spirit. They didn’t see me, not really. They didn’t teach me love or boundaries. I was left to figure it out on my own. So, I adapted.

I learned to smile when I was hurting. I learned to silence my needs because no one would meet them anyway. I learned to rely on myself, but even then, I didn’t know how to trust myself. The world told me that I was too much and not enough, all at the same time. And so, I buried the pain deep, where even I couldn’t reach it.

But pain is never truly buried. It festers. It waits. And when the time is right, it demands to be felt.

I didn’t want to feel. Feeling meant confronting things I wasn’t ready to face. It meant looking at my reflection and acknowledging the brokenness that had become my only companion. So, I found another way. I found substances that numbed the ache. I found chaos that felt like home. I found destruction that mirrored the way I felt inside.

People have tried to help me. They have extended their hands, offered support, pleaded with me to get better. But they don’t understand—healing isn’t simple. Healing requires tearing down walls I’ve spent a lifetime building. It means looking at the little child who never felt wanted, who never felt safe, and telling them it wasn’t their fault. But I am not ready for that.

There is comfort in pain. There is security in knowing what to expect. I know how to navigate chaos. I know how to survive when everything is falling apart. Stability? That’s foreign to me. When things start to go well, I panic. I don’t trust happiness because happiness feels temporary. It feels like a trick waiting to betray me. And so, I sabotage. I push people away before they can leave me. I ruin good things before they can hurt me. I choose the destruction I understand over the healing that terrifies me.

People ask why I won’t just accept help. Why I won’t go to therapy, why I won’t take the steps to a healthier life. They don’t realize that help feels like another battle I don’t have the energy to fight. Help means sitting in my pain without an escape. Help means facing truths I have spent a lifetime avoiding. Help is a door I cannot walk through, not yet.

I don’t need to be fixed. I don’t need someone to swoop in and save me. I need to be understood. Healing is not a straight path—it is messy, painful, and often ugly. I need people to stop expecting me to change on their timeline when I am still trying to decide if I even want to change.

One day, maybe I will be ready. Maybe I will wake up and decide that I deserve something better. Maybe I will see that I am worthy of love, stability, and peace. But that day has to come from me. No one can force me to heal. No one can drag me into the light when I am still comfortable in the dark.

So, please, don’t try to fix me. Don’t try to save me. Just let me be. Let me find my own way, even if it’s slow, even if it’s painful, even if it’s a path you don’t understand. Because only when I am ready, truly ready, will I take the first step toward healing.

And when that day comes, I hope you’ll still be there, waiting, with open arms.

How Loved Ones Can Respond

If you love someone who struggles with this mindset, the best thing you can do is offer unwavering support without pressure. Healing cannot be forced—it has to be a personal choice. Be patient, listen without judgment, and provide stability. Avoid trying to "fix" them; instead, give them the space to grow at their own pace.

Offer tools rather than solutions. Encourage therapy, self-reflection, and healthy coping mechanisms, but do not push. Show them that love is not conditional on their healing. Be a presence they can return to when they are ready. Sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is simply be there, reminding them that when they choose to step into the light, they won’t have to do it alone.

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Part 2 of this article: I Am Broken, Please Don’t Fix Me (Part 2) A Different Perspective — Blessed Ways of Life

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