#force healing

Well aside from the fact that you're misunderstanding how Force healing is presented in ROS (and mandalorian, where it actually first showed up), this also misses the point of Revenge of the Sith:

Anakin did not need Force healing, he never did

Padme was only dying because ANAKIN FUCKING STRANGLED HER!!

Anakin did not turn to the dark side because Padme died, he turned because he was afraid of her dying because he couldn't let go, being able to keep Padme from dying means nothing when Anakin is the one who murdered her, if Anakin had done nothing Padme would have lived, she wasn't dying, his dream was not a warning of Padme dying, it was a warning about the consequences of his own actions

That is the tragedy that is Revenge of the Sith, it was all entirely avoidable

As for Force healing in Rise of Skywalker (and mandalorian), it operates entirely on an "equivalent exchange" premise, in order to heal someone else, you have to give some of yourself, so no it doesn't ruin Anakin's motivation to turn to the dark side, if anything, it actually EMPHASIZES how stupid and selfish Anakin was, as even if Padme was dying (again, she wasn't), Anakin could have saved her simply by giving his own life energy, but because Anakin is selfish, that possibility doesn't cross his mind

Anakin doesn't want Padme to live because he loves her or because as a Jedi it's his duty to protect and save lives, Anakin wants to save Padme because he's possessive of her, he doesn't want her to die for his own sake

So to save Padme from death (if she was actually dying, which she wasn't), Anakin would have needed to be willing to give up some of himself, maybe even completely, sacrifice his life so that Padme could live, as is what Ben Solo does for Rey (there's a lot about his redemption that is poorly done, but literally giving his life to bring back someone else-a better person than him, someone who can make the galaxy a better place-isn't one of em, it is in fact a very Jedi thing to do)

Palpatine raised his hands, lightning sparking in them, and blasted at Mace Windu with a fan of electrical energy.

Mace raised his lightsaber, blocking the assault, and pressed the attack. He forced Palpatine back, against the windowsill, and the Chancellor’s gaze flicked for a moment to Anakin.

“He is a traitor, Anakin!” he appealed, desperate.

“He’s the traitor!” Mace said, his voice strained by the effort of sustaining the Seventh Form and maintaining control of the battle. “Stop him!”

“Come to your senses, boy!” Palpatine implored. “The Jedi are in revolt! They will betray you, just as they betrayed me!”

His bolts of lightning pressed in on Mace’s defences, and Mace shouted in exertion.

Anakin’s hand twitched, torn at a moment of decision. The Force pressed in on him, on this moment, and he took a step forwards.

There was a faint squish sound as he stepped in Master Tiin, and Anakin glanced down to see the half-bisected corpse on the ground.

“You are not one of them, Anakin!” Palpatine pleaded. “Don’t let him kill me!”

Anakin’s gaze lifted again, to the battle, and he hesitated.

“I am your pathway to power!” Palpatine insisted. “I have the power to save the one you love-”

“Anakin!” Mace interrupted, his voice a shout. “If we stop him now I think we can save Master Fisto!”

Anakin blinked, looking down at the Nautolan.

He appeared to be missing at least two lungs, possibly all three of them.

“We can?” he asked. “He looks… dead.”

“Force healing, mother-” Mace shouted, his irritation spiking and leading him dangerously close to falling off the blade’s edge of the Seventh Form, then wrenched himself back into balance with a monumental effort.

Then Anakin stabbed Palpatine in the side, and the sudden cutoff in Palpatine’s spray of Force Lightning meant that the Chancellor went flying out the window.

Then a speeder crashed into him, and he exploded.

“Ow,” Mace muttered, blinking a few times. “Now that was a shatterpoint.”

“...why did he explode?” Anakin asked, confused, then shook his head. “Master – Master Fisto!”

“Right,” Mace said, deactivating his lightsaber and taking two striding steps over to the fallen Masters – stepping over Master Kolar before kneeling on the battered floor of the office.

“What do I do?” Anakin asked. “How can I help?”

“Hold his head up and watch,” Mace replied, focusing, and put both hands on the chest of his friend. “Nautolans can last for longer without air than humans can, but he needs his lungs…”

Anakin watched, fascinated, as Mace summoned the Force to him.

It was… surprisingly simple, all things considered. It wasn’t some kind of complex, intricate trick where Mace had to factor in all the medical details of exactly what he was doing.

It was just… he was willing to give up some of his own strength, some of his own life. And as he did, Master Fisto coughed, a wet sound but one that showed he was still alive.

Then so did Mace.

“Ow,” the human Master muttered. “I’d… appreciate it if you could call a medic…”

“Master?” Anakin asked, worried. “Are you all right?”

“One of my lungs doesn’t work any more, what do you think?” Mace asked, shaking his head. “There’s a reason we don’t teach that technique to just anyone…”

He turned, slumping into a sitting position on the floor, and sighed. “I think I could have handled this whole thing better…”

“I wondered why you didn’t try to arrest him,” Anakin admitted.

“We did,” Mace replied. “For trial before the Senate – he said he was the Senate. Then he killed three Jedi Masters in five seconds, and you saw yourself… disarming him wouldn’t do anything to stop him killing anyone he wanted dead.”

He shot a glare at Anakin. “Medic?”

THE FORCE HEALER: I sense the weight of things, things I can't see.

Miraculous Telekinesis is a Jedi Force Healing (JFH) technique. It involves the telekinetic manipulation of objects by reversal of motion, with greater precision than is ordinarily possible, and often allows feats of movement which are impossible by other means.

Miraculous telekinesis (MT) was invented by a healer, but also has applications outside of medicine.

Understanding the Technique

In some cases, it is unclear which techniques Healer Cheworralyka invented and which he only compiled, but for MT he details the story for us. Early in his practice as a Knight Healer, he encountered a near-mortally wounded wookie child who, after being struck by both shrapnel and a multitude of wooden shards in the Second Bombings of Kashyyyk. It is likely Healer Cheworralyka had been working on techniques for dealing with similar injuries since the First Bombings. The complexity of the numerous injuries and the difficulty of locating small entry wounds under wookie fur motivated his first trial of MT on a patient.

Unlike Vision Healing, which looks to the patient’s future for possibilities of healing, MT looks to the past, and reverses motion which brought harm to the patient.

To understand what is meant by “reverses motion” here, consider the way water flows down a drain. When there is only little left, it begins to swirl downward in a complex, unexpected spiral; this is the motion. Reversing it first appears impossible: neither turning the drain upside-down nor pushing the water up from below will induce the water to spiral up backwards. Indeed, even putting the same water back atop the drain is unlikely to recreate the same spiral. Yet there is no taboo in the universe against each quanta of water finding itself in the same location and with opposite velocity, only a great difficulty. And with the Force as our ally, we may overcome such difficulties.

Barriss Offee: The Scarred Healer ANIMATION

Tongued Night

Bariss Offee had learned to read absence. In the temple corridors silence had contours and cadence; in the hush of a bivouac the gaps between breaths told you when a sentinel had crept close. She practiced listening as other people practiced swordplay: the muscles internalized it until interpretation came without thinking. That skill had always been more than craft; it was a small magic.

The crater wanted to be understood.

It sat at the city's edge like a removed eye, an indented geometry of stone and shadow. Locals inched their carts wide of it, and shipwrights crossed to the far side of the quay so that the crater’s unease could not lick at their ankles. Merchants told stories of a thing that gulped memories like fish, of a sound like the scraping of coins inside a chest. Bariss went because the Force shaped the notion into a question she could not ignore. She did not like unanswered questions.

The rim was warm when she touched it, as if heat pooled beneath like blood. When she crouched and peered down, the darkness inside did not so much absorb light as negotiate with it. Something in the bowl shifted as she leaned forward — a patient, hollow pulse that translated across skin into meaning. It felt like a slow throat clearing.

"You ask to be heard," she said aloud. Speech was a tool to map a strange place; saying a thing made it more legible. "Tell me what you are."

A pressure at the base of her skull answered, like a hand laid over a sleeping heart. "We remember," the crater said. The word was many voices at once — wind in a stairwell, the rustling of paper, a child's whisper. "We gather what slips. We taste.

"We are hungry."

The seduction arrived not as a lash but as curiosity. The crater did not roar; it offered. It drew images from her mind with such particularity that Bariss felt seen: the exact pitch of a laugh she had once given a friend in the rain, the name of a village whose sign had been erased in the maps, the melody of a lullaby hummed by a woman who was not her mother. Each revelation was presented with the intimacy of a suitor who knows the small shapes of your hands.

"Why?" she asked. Curiosity had a moral edge; it could be a weapon.

"Because forgetting is a hunger," it said. "The world discards. We keep what is dropped."

The crater's voice threaded temptingly around her, shaping images into warm offers. It promised maps to secret archives, the location of a ledger that recorded deliberate oblivion, the truth of which officials had decreed certain names to vanish. Knowledge hummed like nectar in the air. The Force whispered in counterpoint — caution and wanting braided together.

She could have left. Many would have. But Bariss had always felt that there were layers to compassion: one might be generous to others yet careless with oneself. She moved into the shadow and felt the ground pulse against her boots, a heartbeat that felt less alive than intent. The crater asked for a trade: remembrance for direction. It wanted what was easiest to take — small memories, private notes. Bariss could have denied it, but the ledger it promised might repair a community's loss.

"You will not be appeased by mere names," she said to the dark, bargaining in the tongue of her training. "Show me the ledger and I will tell of you in return."

"We prefer truth," the crater intoned, but its voice was interested by nuance. "We take what drops. We accept gifts."

Marek came down the slope at the chosen moment, as if summoned by the rust of occasion. He was a practical man with a face like a cautionary tale; his rope and lamp announced himself as a flavor of help that was half rescue, half salvage. "Bariss," he said, winded, "you look like you've been listening to saints and lost your mind."

"I listen to what speaks," she answered without smiling. "It says it will provide a ledger."

He peered into the blackness and did not joke further. "Ledgers are good. Ledgers have fingers you can hold."