As a surgeon—especially a sports surgeon—my training has shaped how I see problems. A patient comes in with a knee injury, and almost instinctively, my mind moves into problem-solving mode.
What’s injured?
What does the examination show?
What does the MRI reveal?
From there, my thoughts quickly jump to solutions: repair, reconstruct, replace. The key word is always do. What can I do to fix this?
Of course, we are taught, “Treat the patient, not the scan.” But even that phrase is so easily twisted into another kind of problem-solving. We think we are treating the patient when in reality, we are still rushing to fix.
The Same Instinct in Relationships
That same instinct bleeds into my life outside the operating theatre. At home, with family, or at work, when there’s a breakdown—an argument, tension, disappointment—my first thought is, “What can I do to fix this?”
It feels responsible. It feels proactive. But I’ve realized it often misses something crucial.
What’s often needed is not a fix. It’s not another step, plan, or solution. What’s needed is someone who slows down, listens, and cares.
And that’s the part I find hardest.
Because it means facing the uncomfortable silence of not having a solution. It means sitting with emotions—mine and the other person’s—without rushing to make them go away.
Learning to Slow Down
In medicine, not every problem requires surgery. Some injuries recover with time, care, and support. And in life, not every relational or emotional wound can be “operated” on.
Sometimes, the most important thing I can offer is presence. To understand the emotions behind the breakdown. To see the person in front of me, not just the problem they carry.
The truth is, this requires more humility than fixing. Because fixing puts me in control. Listening requires me to let go of control.
And as I reflect on this, I wonder: how should the Christian think about this?
— ✂️ CUT FOR SUBSTACK ✂️ —
The Gospel Shifts My Perspective
The gospel reminds me that my worth is not in how well I fix others’ problems. It’s not in how useful I am or how much I can do.
Jesus didn’t come first to “fix” people in the way I often think. He came to love, to dwell with us, to see us in our brokenness. Healing came, but it flowed out of His love and presence.
This changes everything for me. When I feel the urge to jump into problem-solving, I am reminded that Christ first loved me—not because I was fixed, but because I was His.
So when I sit with a patient, a friend, or a family member, I want to grow in reflecting that same love. To see the person before me, not just their problem. To trust that God’s presence—not my fixing—is ultimately what heals.