The Moment I Stopped Fixing (and Why It Changed Everything)

As mums, we go into autopilot when our kids are hurting.

We fix.

We research.

We advocate.

We push.

We hold it all together - because that’s what mums do, right?

When my son became unwell, I did exactly that. I went straight into fix-it mode. If I could just work harder, learn more, understand more, surely, I could make it better.

The truth?

The moment things actually shifted was the moment I realised I couldn’t fix it.

And that realisation didn’t come gently. It came after a complete spiral. System-induced burnout. Exhaustion that seeped into my bones. The kind of tired where you realise sheer willpower isn’t enough anymore.

So I did what I do best. I educated myself.

Hard.

I went into a deep-dive, ADHD-style hyperfocus into every diagnosis my son had ever been given. And let’s be honest - there were many. It felt like a bag of liquorice all sorts. Just when I thought I’d wrapped my head around one, another popped up.

Before we paid for our own private psychiatrist, we’d seen countless doctors. Each with a slightly different opinion. Different labels. Different explanations. Different treatment ideas.

So I kept researching.

Kept learning.

Not always agreeing with what was being thrown at us - but sometimes having those aha moments where something finally made sense.

I dissected everything. Diagnoses. Treatment options. Medications. Approaches.

And what I learnt - slowly, painfully, was that it was actually less about diagnosis and more about healing. Less about labels and more about supporting my son to find his identity inside the mess.

I also had to confront something deeply uncomfortable for me.

As a nurse, I had been trained to believe medications were key. And don’t get me wrong, medications absolutely play a role.

But I had to learn the hard way that they are only one small piece of a very big puzzle.

Balancing medications was a massive learning curve. There were times when antipsychotics were so high they tipped my son into a severe depression. Along with a long list of side effects, excessive weight gain, lack of motivation, emotional flatness.

Medication wasn’t fixing anything.

It was just one part of a much bigger healing process.

As my son began to recover, something else happened that I wasn’t prepared for.

He started to pull away.

Not because he was angry.

Not because he didn’t love me.

But because he needed to find his own way out of the darkness.

He still wanted support, but he didn’t need the fix-it mum anymore.

And even though this should have felt like relief, it honestly felt like hell.

I was scared. Uneasy. Lost.

My entire sense of purpose felt like it had been ripped away.

Who was I now, if I wasn’t fixing?

What I couldn’t see at the time was that my purpose hadn’t disappeared - it had shifted.

From fixing

to supporting

to walking alongside.

That shift is uncomfortable. And I see it all the time in the work I do now. I work with mums who sit in that same space - terrified, grieving, unsure of who they are without the fixer role.

What I say to them is this:

What a good job you’ve done.

You’ve empowered your child. You’ve given them tools. You’ve supported them to a point where they can start taking steps on their own.

You haven’t lost your purpose.

It hasn’t gone anywhere.

It has simply changed.

And with that, the dynamic of the relationship shifts too. That’s okay. It becomes less about parenting in the traditional sense, and more about walking alongside.

But here’s the flip side - and it matters.

So many people don’t have any informal supports. No one fixing. No one walking beside them. No one loving them unconditionally. And this is a huge problem - one we navigate every single day.

I was recently chatting with someone about the progress my son has made, and they said something that stuck with me:

This is what recovery looks like when people have support. Not therapy. Not doctors. Not clinicians. But loved ones who never give up.

So many people are missing this vital link.

I work with people through recovery - all of it. The mess. The ups, the downs, the turnarounds, the crises, the wins. All wrapped up with a nice bow (well… most days 😅).

And what I know to be true is this:

Support has to be flexible.

It has to bend.

It has to shift.

Sometimes it looks like nurturing.

Sometimes it’s holding space.

Sometimes it’s stepping in.

Sometimes it’s stepping back.

It’s supporting action. Encouraging self-advocacy. Then watching capacity grow. Watching someone spread their wings and fly.

There are so many versions of support you need to be - and it’s hard. But when you work it out, it’s a game changer.

Every now and then I’ll listen to my son talking, and he’ll say something I taught him years ago. He might be giving advice, sharing insight.

I see the same thing with people I support - sitting in a psych review, advocating for themselves, explaining strategies we’ve worked on together.

And honestly?

It’s music to my bloody ears.

Almost tear-inducing - and that’s saying something for someone who refuses to cry in public.

Mental health recovery is a slow, slow burn. But if you take off the blinkers and really look, you can see progress.

And when people are asked how they got there, the answer is almost always the same:

Support.

From fixing to walking alongside - it’s been one hell of a journey. And I’m so grateful I’ve been on it. Grateful for the continued learning, the growth, and the privilege of supporting people on their own journeys - whatever that looks like for them.

Because I’ve learnt this:

It isn’t my role to fix people.

It never was.

My role is to support, empower, and walk beside them - until they have the capacity to find their own way forward.

And that shift?

That’s where everything changes.

• Kym Mcminn - Managing Director T and K support services