Being a problem solver gives me purpose, but some problems are not mine to solve
Nathan Chadwick · · 7 min read
TLDRRead the short version
- I am a problem solver. Fixing things is how I make sense of the world, and it gives me a real sense of purpose.
- The same wiring has a cost. When a problem is not mine to solve, I still feel the pull to fix it, and not being able to is one of the hardest things I deal with.
- Some problems belong to other people. Other people's choices, feelings, health, and habits are theirs. I can offer help. I cannot do the work for them.
- Care is not the same as control. Being useful is not the same as being needed.
- Letting go is not giving up. It is putting my energy where it can actually change something.
The thing I am good at#
I solve problems. It is what I do for work, and it is how I am built.
Something is broken, confusing, or not working the way it should, and a part of me will not rest until I understand why. I like taking it apart. I like finding the actual cause rather than the first thing that looks guilty. I like the moment where it stops being a mystery and becomes a list of steps.
That is a big part of why I am in IT and security. A fault has a cause. A cause has a fix. You work the problem and eventually it moves.
I will not pretend that is just a job skill. It is where a lot of my purpose comes from. When I am fixing something, I feel useful, I feel calm, and I feel like I am doing what I am for.
Why it feels like purpose#
A world with problems in it is a world with something for me to do. That is a comforting way to live.
If I can solve it, then I matter. If I can make it better, then my effort counts. Not every part of life gives you that kind of feedback, but a good fix does. You can see the before and the after.
It also fits how my brain works. Clear systems, readable rules, and a goal I can chase suit me. I am autistic, and a lot of the world is vague, unwritten, and full of things I have to work out consciously. A problem I can break down is a place where I know how to behave.
So I lean into it. I look for what needs fixing. I notice it before I have decided to notice it. And when something is wrong, I want to help.
Where it goes wrong#
The trouble is that the instinct does not check who owns the problem first.
It switches on for everything. A friend who is struggling. A person who keeps repeating the same pattern. A situation that is clearly heading somewhere bad. A system I do not control, run by people who have decided to do it a different way.
I see it, I can often see the fix, and I want to apply it.
But some problems cannot be solved by me, however well I understand them. Not because I am not clever enough, and not because I have not tried hard enough. Because they are not mine.
- Someone else's choices are theirs to make.
- Someone else's feelings are theirs to work through.
- Someone else's health, habits, and healing happen on their timeline, not mine.
- Some decisions sit with people who have the authority and have chosen differently.
I can have the right answer and still be unable to use it. That is a strange kind of helplessness for someone whose whole identity is built on being able to help.
What it feels like#
It does not feel like a calm acceptance. It feels like a loop.
I keep running it. I keep looking for the angle I missed. If I just phrase it differently, if I just give them the right information, if I just try once more, then it will work. I treat it like a bug that has a fix I have not found yet.
Then it does not move, and I start to wonder what I did wrong.
That is the dangerous part. When a problem I care about does not get solved, I do not just feel sad. I feel like I failed. Because if solving things is what I am for, then an unsolved problem feels like a verdict on me.
It is not. But it takes real effort to remember that.
Not mine to solve#
The idea that finally helped is old and simple. Work out what is yours, and what is not.
It runs through a lot of traditions. The Stoics put it at the very start of their teaching: Epictetus opens the Enchiridion by saying some things are up to us and some are not. The Serenity Prayer says it as a request: grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Psychology has its own version, locus of control, which is about whether you believe outcomes depend on your own actions or on things outside you.
None of that is new. What I had to learn is that the third part, knowing the difference, is the actual skill. It is a diagnosis step. I am good at diagnosis everywhere else, and I was not applying it to my own life.
So now I try to ask the question before I start:
- Is this mine? Did I cause it, own it, or get asked to fix it?
- Can I affect it? Is there a real lever I can pull, or am I pushing on a wall?
- Has anyone asked? Is help wanted, or am I forcing a solution on someone who did not ask?
- What is my part? Even when the whole problem is not mine, there may be a small piece that is.
If the honest answers are no, no, no, and nothing, then the most useful thing I can do is not solve it.
Care is not control#
This is the part I find hardest to say, because it sounds cold. It is not.
Caring about someone does not give me the right to run their life. I can tell them what I see. I can offer help, once, clearly, and mean it. I can be there when they want to talk. I can make it easy for them to come to me.
What I cannot do is do the work for them. If I try, one of two things happens. They resent it, because it takes away their say. Or they lean on it, and I have built a dependency that is not good for either of us.
I used to think being needed was the same as being valuable. It is not. Being needed can be a trap, because it makes you responsible for things that should belong to someone else. Being valuable is being someone who is reliable, honest, and useful when it counts.
You can be all of that and still hand a problem back.
What I do instead#
I will not pretend I have mastered this. These are the things that help.
- I say what I can offer, then I stop. "If you want help with this, I am here" is a complete sentence. I do not need to follow it with a plan.
- I ask before I fix. Sometimes people want solutions. Sometimes they want someone to listen. Asking "do you want ideas, or do you just want me to hear it?" saves us both.
- I move the energy. The drive to fix does not disappear, so I give it somewhere it can land. A system to tidy up. A thing to build. Training. A problem that is actually mine.
- I let it be unfinished. An open problem that is not mine is allowed to stay open. I do not have to close every ticket in the world.
- I check what I am telling myself. If I catch "it is on me if this goes badly", I question it. Usually the real answer is "it is on them, and I can still care".
What it gave back#
Letting go of problems that are not mine did not make me less of a problem solver. It made me a better one.
When I stopped spending everything on things I could not move, I had more left for the things I can. My work got clearer. The people closest to me got a version of me who listens rather than a version who is constantly trying to correct things. And I stopped carrying every unresolved situation around like a personal failure.
My purpose is still there. It just has a smaller, more honest shape. I fix what is mine to fix. I help where help is wanted. And when a problem belongs to someone else, I can be on their side without taking it out of their hands.
That is still being useful. It is just being useful in a way that respects the other person.
If this is you#
If you are the one who always sees the fix, who cannot let a problem lie, and who feels like a failure when it does not go away, I want to say this plainly.
You are not failing when you cannot solve something that was never yours. Wanting to help is a good thing. It just needs somewhere to point.
Work out what is yours. Do that well. Offer the rest, and then let it go.