kinfolk+soul

An Open Letter to the Fix-It Person: How to Listen to a Broken Appliance…

Dear Fix-It Person,

When I say, “I have a problem,” I am not handing you a broken appliance. There is no schematic for my wiring, no warranty to void, no simple replacement part for a soul that feels worn thin.

I am inviting you into a room that is currently on fire.

This is not a drill. The air is thick with the smoke of anxiety, the flames of despair are licking up the walls of my resolve, and the heat is a physical weight on my chest. I am in here. And from where I’m standing, it’s an emergency.

You stand in the doorway, a silhouette against the safe, cool light of the hallway. You squint into the inferno and offer your assessment: “Water is wet.” You tell me, “Just walk out of the room,” as if my feet aren’t nailed to the floor. You advise, “It’s a choice to feel hot,” as if the fire in me isn’t real. You are reciting a manual for a different universe, one where fires are polite and extinguish on command.

This is not helping.

Come in.

Not to be a hero. Not to single-handedly battle the blaze with a teacup of advice. Just come in. Sit on the sooty floor beside me. Let the heat redden your skin. Let the smoke make your eyes water. Acknowledge the reality of the flames. Say, “This is terrifying,” or, “I can see why you’re overwhelmed,” or simply, “I’m here.”

Just that. Just be a witness. Just let me know I am not screaming into a void.

Because here is the secret you miss: when someone feels seen in their pain, the oxygen feeding the fire begins to thin. The flames don’t necessarily vanish, but they become less monstrous. The isolation, the feeling that I am the only one who has ever burned, is often the most flammable part.

And then, once you have acknowledged the heat, once you understand this is not a simple spill to be mopped up but a complex, raging blaze… then we can talk about the fire hose.

Then, your practical mind becomes a gift instead of a weapon. Then, “Have you tried therapy?” can sound like a lifeline instead of a criticism. Then, “Let’s make a plan for tomorrow,” can feel like a bucket of water, not another demand.

But you have to sit in the soot first. You have to believe the fire is real.

Because the most chilling thing you can do is stand in the doorway, safe and detached, and tell the person in the burning room that they are simply choosing to feel the heat.

Yours,
The One on Fire.