Latest / She Rose: Women Who Turned Pain Into Purpose / Why You Can’t Stop Fixing Broken Things (And How to Heal Too) | She Rose
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of ache in your chest when you see something beautiful shattered on the floor, and you know you are the only one who can pick up the pieces. It’s not just about fixing the object; it’s about proving that what was broken can still hold water. Let’s sit with that for a second. I want you to think about the last time you saw something broken—a cracked mug, a frayed hem, a friend’s heart laid bare—and felt an immediate, almost physical pull to fix it. Not because you were asked. Not because it was your job. But because the break itself felt like an insult to the whole. If you’ve ever been that person, if you’ve ever stayed up until 2 AM gluing together a ceramic bowl or stitching a tear in someone else’s narrative, then this episode is for you. We are going to talk about the unsung heroes among us—the women who find purpose in repair. And more importantly, we are going to look at why this impulse, while beautiful, often comes at a cost to our own souls. I’m Bethany Cook, and you are listening to She Rose. Today, we’re exploring the quiet dignity of restoration, and the dangerous line between healing the world and losing yourself in the process. We all know the phrase. Leonard Cohen wrote it, but so did every grandmother who ever mended a sock by candlelight. The crack is where the light gets in. It’s a comforting thought, isn’t it? It suggests that damage is necessary for beauty. That without the break, there is no story worth telling. But here is the raw honesty I need to share with you: sometimes, we don’t fix things because we believe in the light. Sometimes, we fix things because we are terrified of the dark that comes when we admit something is gone forever. When I was working as a corporate mediator, before I found my way into this holistic work, I spent years in rooms where people’s lives had fractured. Divorces, bankruptcies, betrayals. My job was to help them glue the pieces back together so they could walk out looking whole again. And I was good at it. I was brilliant at it. I could spot the structural weakness in a relationship faster than anyone. But I realized one day, sitting in my car after a particularly brutal settlement, that I couldn’t stop fixing other people’s messes because I didn’t know how to sit with my own emptiness. The repair became a distraction from the void. Think about the people in your life who are always the ones holding it together. The friend who remembers everyone’s birthday. The colleague who stays late to format the spreadsheet perfectly. The daughter who manages her parents’ medical appointments while ignoring her own fatigue. These are the unsung heroes. They operate under a silent vow: if I just keep everything running smoothly, then I am safe. Then I am valuable. Then I am loved. But let me tell you, this is a heavy burden to carry. It assumes that your worth is tied to your utility. That you must be useful to be worthy. And when you are tired—when you are truly, bone-deep exhausted—you start to resent the very things you love. You look at the broken vase and instead of seeing potential, you see another demand on your energy. You look at the friend crying and instead of offering comfort, you feel a spike of irritation that their pain requires your labor. This resentment is not a moral failing. It is a signal. It is your spirit telling you that you have given away too much of yourself to patch up the holes in others’ lives. In Japan, there is an art form called Kintsugi. When a precious bowl breaks, they don’t hide the cracks. They fill them with gold lacquer. The break becomes part of the history of the object. It makes it more beautiful for having been broken. There is a profound difference between Kintsugi and simple glue. Glue tries to make the break invisible. It tries to return the object to its original state, pretending nothing happened. Kintsugi honors the break. It acknowledges the trauma and transforms it into strength. As women, we often act as the glue. We smooth over arguments. We pretend everything is fine when it’s clearly not. We hide our own fractures so that others can feel comfortable. But true healing, real repair, looks like Kintsugi. It requires us to acknowledge the break. It requires us to say, 'Yes, this hurt. Yes, this changed us. And yes, we are different now.' When we try to glue things back to how they were, we deny the reality of the change. We deny the growth. And that denial is exhausting. It’s a performance of wholeness that leaves us feeling hollow inside. Here is the hardest truth to swallow: the things we fix most urgently are often reflections of our own unhealed wounds. When you cannot stand to see a messy room, it might be because you feel chaotic inside. When you cannot tolerate a friend’s mistake, it might be because you are punishing yourself for your own past errors. The external world becomes a canvas for our internal battles. We project our desire for order onto a disordered universe. And since the universe is rarely orderly, we burn out trying to control it. I remember a woman named Elena who came to me last year. She was obsessed with restoring antique furniture. She would buy damaged chairs, sand them down, refinish them, polish them until they shined. She told me she felt alive when she worked on these pieces. But when I asked her about her marriage, which was currently falling apart, she went silent. She couldn’t fix her marriage because she didn’t know how to ask for help. She knew how to sand and varnish. She knew how to apply pressure and heat. But she didn’t know how to listen. She was using the tangible satisfaction of repair to avoid the messy, uncertain emotional labor of connection. She was fixing wood because people were too hard. So, how do we reclaim this gift without losing ourselves? How do we honor our nature as healers without becoming martyrs? First, you must give yourself permission to leave some things broken. This feels radical, doesn’t it? To look at a situation and say, 'This is not mine to fix.' Maybe it’s a habit your sister has. Maybe it’s a systemic injustice that feels too big to tackle alone. Maybe it’s your own depression that just needs to be witnessed, not cured immediately. It’s okay to be a work in progress. It’s okay to be a broken thing yourself. You do not have to be the glue. You can be the gold. You can choose to highlight your scars rather than hide them. You can share your failures openly. When you do this, you give others permission to do the same. You create space for authentic connection instead of performative perfection. And second, you must learn to distinguish between repair and rescue. Repair is collaborative. It asks, 'How can we fix this together?' Rescue is unilateral. It says, 'Let me save you before you realize you need saving.' Check your motives. Are you helping because you love the person, or because you need to feel needed? The answer will tell you everything you need to know. If you want to continue finding purpose in repair, shift your focus from the object to the intention. Don’t fix the mug because it’s ugly. Fix it because you love the person who drinks from it. Don’t mend the relationship because you fear being alone. Mend it because you value the history you share. When your motivation shifts from control to compassion, the work changes. It becomes lighter. It becomes joyful. You start to see the beauty in the imperfection. You start to appreciate the unique shape of the break. This is how we turn pain into purpose. Not by erasing the pain, but by integrating it. By making it part of the design. So today, I invite you to notice where you are acting as glue. Where are you smoothing over cracks that need to be seen? Where are you carrying burdens that aren’t yours to bear? Put them down. Just for a moment. Let the air hit the fracture. Let it breathe. You are not responsible for holding the world together. You are only responsible for being present within it. And that is enough. More than enough. It is everything. Thank you for letting me sit with you in this quiet space today. Remember, you are allowed to be unfinished. You are allowed to be a masterpiece of cracks and gold. I’ll be right here next week, ready to listen. Until then, take gentle care of yourself.