"God, that Sucks!"
The subtle art of witnessing without trying to fix
"I’m feeling so weak and dizzy,” my daughter says, flopping onto the couch with an exhausted sigh.
They’ve been going through some health challenges and they’ve just come home early from work. They’ve been to the doctor. They’re proactively trying to make things better. And yet, my parentified GenX brain still chides silently, Then stop whining and do something!
And every time my brain makes that unspoken judgment, I hate myself just a little. Because intellectually, I know what my kid needs: They need someone to say, “God, that sucks! I’m so sorry. I really hate that you’re going through this.” And instead, my first instinct is to say, “Tough it out. You’ve got this. Have you checked in with your doctor? What’s next?”
I just want to fix things, the way I used to when my kid was nine as opposed to almost 29. But clearly, I can’t give my daughter a kiss on the top of the head to make it all better. They don’t need me to problem-solve, they just need my presence. That’s what the moment requires.
And it’s really fucking hard.
I grew up in the “rub some dirt on it” generation. Our parents left us alone at precariously young ages to figure out our own problems and solve them without much help. And so, I’ve long embraced my role as the oldest child, only girl, and the mature kid who was “wise beyond her years.” I’ve assigned myself the role of “fixer,” and when I can’t fix something, I flail.
But I can’t fix my kid’s health issues. And even though I suspect they’re going to be OK, right now they need me to validate, witness, and be the person who gives a hug instead of an answer.
If I’m not the answer person, then who am I?
My daughter and I have had variations on the same conversation over the years. They open up about a problem; I offer solutions. They discard most of the solutions and present me with 15 reasons why those solutions won’t work for them. I get cranky and say, “OK, whatever! Do what you want. Why do you even ask me?”
Their answer is usually… telling.
“I didn’t ask for anything! I’m just letting you know what I’m going through.”
And usually, I don’t want to hear that. Because it negates everything I’ve grown up believing myself to be: the fixer, the problem-solver, the wise-beyond-her-years one. Why won’t my kid just accept my solutions? Wouldn’t most people feel grateful to have a fixer in their corner?
When I was laid off in 2024, I felt some relief at first. I hated my corporate job, which seemed to be getting worse with each new upper manager who flowed through the revolving door. I got a decent severance, and I could use my unemployment benefits to keep from spending the money I’d tucked into savings. But as the months wore on, the panic set in. My savings was nearly depleted, my unemployment benefits were expiring, and I was, to use the vernacular of job seekers everywhere, fucked.
Over the course of a year, I sent out more than 1,000 résumés and landed six interviews.
Then came the advice.
“Have you looked into working for the state? My cousin just got a job with—”
Gosh, the realization that I live in a capital city where state offices are ubiquitous almost escaped me! Thanks for the suggestion.
"What if you signed up for [Uber/DoorDash/Amazon Flex], just temporarily?”
Why didn’t I think of that? It’s possible I gave up on stuff like DoorDash because in our small city I couldn’t make enough to make my car payment let alone my mortgage and it was taking energy I didn’t have away from the work I needed to be doing to, you know, actually survive.
All these people thoughtfully and kindly trying to fix my life for me. When what I mostly needed was for someone to see me, validate what I was experiencing, and say, “God, that sucks!"
And for each “solution,” I anxiously offered 15 reasons why they could never work, all while feeling ungrateful because I wasn’t more accepting of their ideas.
Eventually, it was a friend from the choir community I belong to who put forth a solution I could work with. Callie had never offered job hunting tips. She was compassionate, contributed to the GoFundMe I was forced to put online to survive (as did so many other beautiful souls, for which I’m humbled), and then gently shared a “trickle” income source she thought might help just a little—managing Zoom tech for the Quaker community she belonged to. And because this wouldn’t sap my energy like delivering subs during the lunch rush, I accepted.
And then I met a lovely community of progressive, justice-minded people whose entire worldview revolves not around offering answers but asking questions. It doesn’t matter if you’re a new “seeker” or an elder who’s been practicing Quakerism for a lifetime—Quakers consistently have more questions than answers. And although I’m agnostic, I’m absolutely here for that whole vibe. Each Sunday, I preside over the Quakers’ silent worship, making sure people who can’t come to the Meetinghouse are able to join remotely. There’s no preacher, no pulpit, just a community sitting in silence, pondering. Occasionally, someone will rise to share a “message”—some thought or idea moving within them. And often, those messages are profound and world-shaping.
So, when the Quakers needed to hire an office manager—a role they call Hearthkeeper—I was asked whether I’d like to apply. Of course, I said yes. And I was offered the position for fair pay, albeit on a very part-time basis. It wasn’t enough, but it was at least enough to help me pay my monthly mortgage. The rest, I cobble together writing on Substack (thank you, subscribers!), freelancing for Grammar Girl, writing for a local arts publication, and taking whatever odd gigs I can find.
I’m still barely scraping by. But I am somehow scraping by.
My redemption (well, my ability to hang on by my fingertips, at least) didn’t come in the form of a quick-fix solution offered by a well-meaning friend or family member. It didn’t start with someone saying, “Maybe you should…” but rather someone saying, “I know this isn’t much, but if you’re interested…”
And I think that’s all it takes, really. We all want to fix others’ discomfort, ostensibly because we hope to improve things for them. But in reality, I’ve learned that the urge to fix is often born out of our own discomfort. We don’t like to see people we care about struggling. We want everything to go back to good, or at least to whatever “normal” feels like for us.
Now, I look at my daughter and everything I want to say bubbles to the surface of my conscience. Have you tried…? Did you do…? Are you getting enough…? What about…?
I push those words down carefully. They come from a place of love, but I know they’re not what’s needed in this moment. I step forward, open my arms, embrace my child, and say, “God, that sucks!”
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