Who Will Fix Mr Fix-It?

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Every friendship circle has one quiet constant — the organiser, the emotional anchor, the person who steps in when plans fall apart or when people fall apart. In this article, I call him Mr Fix-It — not because he is perfect, but because he has quietly trained himself to hold everything together.

Mr Fix-It is the one who remembers birthdays, checks in when someone disappears from the group chat, and shows up early and leaves last. When conflict rises, he mediates. When someone needs a connection, a favour, a loan, or a steady voice, he becomes the first call. He carries people well — so well that no one stops to ask who carries him.

In our twenties and thirties, friendships often become busy rather than deep. Everyone is building something — careers, families, reputations, survival strategies. Without intending to, relationships begin to feel practical. Mr Fix-It slowly becomes useful in ways that are invisible but constant: editing CVs late at night, smoothing misunderstandings, offering emotional stability when others are overwhelmed. Because he does it naturally, no one notices the cost.

The real danger of being the strong one is not exhaustion. It is invisibility.

When you are always composed, reasonable and capable, people stop checking on you — not because they do not care, but because you appear fine. You learn to answer “How are you?” with a small, polite truth. You listen far more than you speak. Over time, the group begins to relate to you more as a resource than as a person. And loneliness grows quietly — even inside friendships. Sometimes the loneliest place can be in a room with the people who are supposed to love you.

I have watched this play out in small, ordinary moments. A friend once called me after midnight, panicked about a job interview the next morning. I stayed on the phone for almost an hour helping him prepare answers, calm his nerves and reorganise his thoughts. The interview went well. We celebrated later. But two weeks earlier, when I was struggling silently with my own uncertainty and burnout, it never crossed my mind to call anyone. I did not even know how to enter the same vulnerability I offer so easily to others.

Mr Fix-It usually does not complain. He has built his identity around being reliable, emotionally mature and safe for others. But when you become everyone’s safe place, you rarely feel safe enough to fall apart. You become fluent in other people’s pain — their break-ups, fears and disappointments — while slowly losing touch with your own.

Here is the truth we avoid saying out loud: strong friends still need soft places to land.

If you are a friend to a Mr Fix-It, the repair does not require dramatic conversations. It begins with small, intentional disruptions. Check in without a crisis. Ask him questions you normally reserve for yourself. And most importantly, do not rush to fix his answers. Let him be unfinished. Let him be tired. Let him be human.

And if you recognise yourself in Mr Fix-It, this is your permission to stop proving your worth through usefulness. You are allowed to take up emotional space. You are allowed to need support without earning it first. Love does not always look like service. Sometimes love is letting someone see you struggle — and staying long enough to let them respond.

Because one day, even the best fixer gets tired. And friendship is finally tested not by how well he carries others, but by who notices — and chooses — to carry him.

(This piece is not about me, contrary to expected popular belief J)

• Bernz.

Written by

Bernard Mukasa

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