I Thought Asking for Help Made Me Weak

Growing up in the 80s, one of the messages I absorbed as a girl was that I should be strong and independent.

I could do anything a man could do.

I didn't need someone else to take care of me.

I could handle things myself.

And to be clear, I think those were good things to learn.

But somewhere along the way, I think I added a few rules of my own.

Strong meant coping.

Independent meant not needing too much from other people.

And asking for help?

That felt a little too close to admitting that I couldn't manage.

I don't think I realised how deeply I believed this until I went through a period when I was really unwell.

There were days when I felt like I was drowning.

I felt lost.

I felt alone.

And I genuinely didn't know how I was going to pull myself out of it.

Interestingly, asking for professional help wasn't difficult for me.

I could go to a doctor.

I could speak to a yoga teacher.

I could find someone who might have an answer to whatever I was dealing with.

But calling a friend and saying:

"I'm really struggling today. I need you."

That was incredibly difficult.

Instead, I'd do something like this:

"Hey, what's up?"

"What are you doing today?"

"Are you free to go out?"

Which, in my head, somehow translated to:

I'm not doing very well. Please spend some time with me.

Except, of course, nobody else could hear that part.

So if my friend already had plans, the answer might be, "Sorry, can't today. How about tomorrow?"

And I'd feel even more alone.

I'd think, nobody's there for me.

Except I hadn't actually told anyone that I needed someone to be there for me.

I'd asked if they were free.

Those are two completely different questions.

And when I finally saw that, it got me thinking about why I found it so difficult to simply say what I needed.

What exactly did I think would happen?

Would someone think I was incapable?

Needy?

Weak?

Would I think those things about myself?

So I decided to experiment with it.

I started asking.

Not dramatically.

Just honestly.

"I'm having a really difficult day. Can we meet?"

"I'm completely overwhelmed. Can you help me with this?"

Even something as ordinary as calling my mother and saying, "I have too much going on today. Could you send me something to eat?"

And something quite unexpected happened.

I didn't feel weak.

I felt loved.

Because when people actually knew I needed them, they showed up differently.

Someone made the time.

Someone called.

Someone helped.

Someone sent food.

Someone sat with me.

And seeing someone make that effort for me gave me something I hadn't expected.

Energy.

It made whatever I was carrying feel a little less heavy.

Not because someone had magically solved the problem for me.

But because I wasn't carrying all of it alone anymore.

I've started noticing this in much more ordinary parts of life too.

There are days when everything piles up.

Work.

Things around the house.

People you love who need your attention.

Appointments.

Responsibilities.

All the tiny things that individually don't seem like much until suddenly you're looking at all of them together and thinking, I cannot do one more thing today.

My old instinct would have been to keep going.

I'll manage.

I'll figure it out.

I'll get everything done.

And then probably feel completely exhausted and slightly resentful that nobody helped me.

I'm getting better at catching that now.

Because there's an uncomfortable question in there:

Did I actually ask anyone?

It's very easy for me to think that the people who love me should somehow know.

They should notice I'm overwhelmed.

They should offer.

They should realise.

But people aren't mind readers.

And I'm not either.

If someone I love called me and said, "I'm really struggling today. I need you," I know I would try to show up.

So why was I denying the people who love me the chance to do the same?

I think for a long time I confused independence with doing everything myself.

I don't anymore.

“I can be capable and still need help. I can be independent and still lean on somebody.”

I can take care of other people and sometimes allow them to take care of me.

None of those things cancel each other out.

In fact, I'm beginning to think this is how relationships and communities are actually built.

Sometimes I carry a little more.

Sometimes you do.

Sometimes I make the phone call.

Sometimes I'm the person who needs to receive it.

And maybe the real strength isn't in proving that I can do everything alone.

Maybe it's being able to say, when I can't:

"I need some help today."