The One-Woman Repair Shop

If bad decisions were an Olympic sport, I’d have a wall full of gold medals and at least one sprained ankle from diving into the wrong relationship — again.

Some women go for tall, dark, and handsome. Me? I apparently go for emotionally unavailable with a tragic childhood and a dog they claim is their “emotional support system.”

I used to think I could fix them. Not just love them — fix them. I’d see all that potential and think, “Challenge accepted.” Because who doesn’t want to be the woman who helps a man finally “see the light”?

Well, let me tell you: I’ve seen the light. It’s the one at the end of the tunnel you crawl out of after you’ve tried to turn a red flag into a rescue mission.

Every man I dated came with a personal renovation plan:

One needed therapy and refused to go.

One needed a job and thought I was the job.

One needed Jesus… and that’s saying something, because I’m still not sure where I stand with Him yet.

I’d build, patch, carry, encourage — and end up exhausted, sitting in the ruins of another project that was never mine to fix.

Somewhere between heartbreak #3 and “I swear I’m done this time,” it finally clicked:

You can’t build a man out of potential.

And you can’t save someone who’s comfortable in the chaos.

What I really learned was that all that “fixing” wasn’t even about them. It was about me. About needing to be needed. About wanting to prove I was worth keeping.

These days, I’m learning to put the hammer down. To let people fix themselves — or not. I still believe in love, but I’ve finally stopped treating it like a construction site.

I’m not saying I’ve got it all figured out. But I am learning to pick peace over projects — and maybe, just maybe, that’s what growing up looks like.