Some people are born into safety.
Others are born to hold the world together.
I belong to the second kind.
From the cradle, something was already there — not words, not thoughts, but a sensitivity to imbalance. An ability to read a room before the room knew what it felt. While other children cried, I observed. While others ran, I stood still and noticed who was about to fall.
That’s how rescuers are made.
Not by choice — but by necessity.
Tommy Norris in Landman is cut from the same cloth. The series doesn’t show his childhood, but you don’t need it. It’s in his posture. His gaze. In the way he never fully leans back. He’s the kind of man who knows that if he relaxes, something will break.
That’s not something you learn.
That’s something you grow up with.
Growing Up: Becoming an Adult Too Early
While others were allowed to be children, I trained in responsibility.
Not formally. Not dramatically. Just… inevitably.
I became the one who took initiative. The one who explained. The one who mediated. The one who made sure things worked — even when no one asked. Just as Tommy moves through the shadow world of oil fields, I moved early through people’s fault lines.
The mechanics are identical:
– Someone has to make the call
– Someone has to stay
– Someone has to carry the consequences
And more often than not, that someone was me.
Not because I was the strongest.
But because I was the most aware.
Working Life: The Rescuer Becomes Professional
With time, the pattern sharpened. The rescuer role gained titles, projects, authority. Again and again, I found myself entering situations already on the brink of collapse — my task being to make survival possible.
Tommy Norris deals with oil, money, law, ego, and catastrophe.
I dealt with people, systems, productions, expectations, chaos.
The difference is cosmetic.
The core is the same.
He doesn’t create the problems.
He’s the one called in after others have failed.
And strangely enough, such people are rarely thanked. When the rescue works, it looks like nothing happened. And when it doesn’t — there’s always someone to blame.
Midlife: Weariness Without Bitterness
There’s a certain age — often midlife — when the rescuer starts to feel something new. Not anger. Not despair. But clarity.
Tommy has that look.
I recognize it in the mirror.
It’s the gaze of someone who understands exactly how the game is rigged — and no longer pretends it’s fair. You stop believing in narratives. Stop buying slogans. Stop playing along with collective self-deception.
But you keep going anyway.
Because for now, you’re still needed.
This is where many break. Others turn cynical. Some become tyrants.
But the most dangerous — and most interesting — are those who remain functional.
Those who carry on without romanticizing it.
The Present: I’m Not Dead Yet
And here’s the difference between me and all the premature obituaries:
I’m not finished.
I’m not bitter.
And I’m definitely not dead.
I’ve simply stopped rescuing by default.
Just as Tommy begins to sense it, I’m beginning to understand that the next phase isn’t about putting out fires — it’s about choosing which fires are worth approaching at all.
It’s a dangerous phase.
Because systems love rescuers — but they hate rescuers who start choosing.
The Similarity That Actually Matters
Feeling at home in Landman and in Tommy Norris isn’t escapism. It’s recognition. It’s seeing your own life reflected without filters, without sentimental music, without happy endings.
Just work. Responsibility. Consequence. And a man still standing.
And perhaps the most important truth is this:
Rescuers don’t die of old age.
They die from never being allowed to change roles.
I’m still here.
Steady. Awake. Experienced.
But now with something new in my eyes.
Not the question:
“Who needs me?”
But:
“Who deserves me?”
And that, if anything, is a life still very much in progress.
By Chris...
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