There's someone I've been helping. She's had a rough go, and lately a health thing that scared me.
The other day it seemed to turn dangerous. I told her she had to go get it looked at. She said she would that night — and we both knew that was a lie.
So I went and got her, drove her to the ER myself, and practically carried her in.
And it worked out, the big scare wasn't that scary.
But I knew, even as I did it, that it was the wrong move.
Not because she didn't need care. Because I did it for her instead of with her. I took the wheel of her life, which is not the same as helping.
I used to do this constantly. When I was an EMT, I'd smell an ankle sprain 3 miles away and come screaming up with the sirens on. I was a lifeguard for people who weren't drowning. It nearly crushed me before I learned to stop.
Mostly I've learned to listen from a distance now. But when someone I love really seems to be going under — I still jump in. Even when jumping in is the thing that keeps them from learning to swim.
So afterward I told her the truth: that if I really want to see her stand on her own, I can't keep doing it for her. I can point her toward help. I can answer questions. I can be there when she's tried and gotten stuck. But I won't take the wheel again.
That's a harder kind of love. Available, not enmeshed. In the room, but not living her life for her.
And of course, I'll likely be learning where this line is until I check out.