Repair
Repair is a funny thing.
It has the potential to bond people together even more than they were before there was ever anything to fix.
But what I fear about repair…is that it leaves the cracks showing. That once something has been broken, it’s more fragile. More likely to break again.
But repair can do the opposite too.
It can make something stronger.
Like muscles that grow through resistance training—microtears that heal back stronger than before.
I was texting with one of my best friends the other night and she said,
“I know I tell you all the time that you mean the world to me, but you do. Thank you for giving me a second chance to be your friend and rebuild our bond.”
A…what?
When did I give her a second chance?
I do not recall any moment where she had to rebuild anything with me. In my mind, we’ve just…been. Fifteen years of friendship. I’m sure we’ve had things to work through, but nothing that felt like it broke us.
So I told her that.
And I asked her what she was talking about.
She tried to remind me.
I
Do
Not
Have
Any
Idea
What
She
Is
Talking
About.
Whatever she’s referring to happened ten years ago.
For ten years, this beautiful friend of mine has believed she’s been living on a second chance with me…while I’ve been walking around with no awareness that anything was ever significantly broken.
For ten years.
And sure—I guess that worked in my favor.
But it also makes me a little sad to think she’s been carrying that. Feeling like she needed to repair something I never saw as broken.
At the same time, another friend of mine recently came to me about something I did that hurt her.
And this time—repair was absolutely necessary.
On my part.
As she talked, I could feel it rising in me—defensiveness.
I was mentally highlighting every place she misunderstood me. Every place she got my intentions wrong. I looked like I was listening…
…but I was absolutely preparing my rebuttal.
And that’s not repair.
Somewhere in the middle of her talking, I caught myself.
I had a choice:
defend my intentions…
or hear her heart.
So I shifted.
I stopped listening for what I could correct, and started listening for where I could take responsibility. I let myself see where I was wrong. Where I could have done better.
And by the time she finished speaking, I was ready—not to defend—but to repair.
I clarified where I felt misunderstood, yes.
But I owned what was mine.
And in that moment, she was the one offering grace.
If I’m honest, I would much rather be the one giving grace than receiving it. I’d choose that every time.
But repair doesn’t work that way.
It requires both.
Someone to offer grace.
And someone willing to receive it.
Both people doing the work.
And real grace…doesn’t keep score.
It doesn’t remind someone, over and over again, that they’ve been forgiven.
And it doesn’t live like it’s on borrowed time either.
My friend is not on her second chance—because there is no counting happening.
Maybe she did something years ago that needed repair.
Maybe.
But I know I forgave it—because I don’t remember it.
I know I forgave it because when I look at her, I don’t see someone who needs to earn her place in my life.
She never needed to earn a first chance.
And she’s not living on a second.
And the friend I hurt?
She doesn’t see me that way either.
We left that conversation stronger. More connected. More honest. I respect the hell out of her for how she came to me—direct, kind, open.
We didn’t just fix something.
We built something.
I’ve always thought repair meant something was broken.
But I’m starting to learn…
sometimes repair is what makes something unbreakable.
If this resonated with you, you might also like:
Authenticity — on wanting to be yourself while still caring what everyone thinks
You Can’t Have Sunday Without Friday — on the hard parts we wish we could skip
Master Avoider — on the ways we protect ourselves instead of showing up
