The Thing I Finally Put Down
Image by @clockwork_lemon from Unsplash
There's a video that's done the rounds on social media claiming there are three hard things to say:
"I'm sorry,"
"I need help," and
Worcestershire sauce
Ha. Jokes aside, there's truth buried in there too, at least for me with the second one.
Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, asking for help stopped being natural and started feeling like a confession.
I've written before about the small moments with my nephew and niece, the ones where they call out for help with something they genuinely can't manage yet. It's endearing. There's no shame in their voice, no hesitation, just a straightforward "I can't do this, can you?" And I love those moments. I also know when to hold back and let them try on their own, because there's a fine, gradual line between helping and enabling, and I can usually tell when a request is a real need versus a lazy way to wriggle out of something.
But here's what struck me: we teach children constantly to ask for help when they need it. We praise them for it. So why, somewhere along the way, do we stop extending ourselves the same grace?
Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, we quietly decide that needing help is something to grow out of, rather than something to grow into doing well.
H.E.L.P.
Humility, not humiliation. Asking for help was never meant to be an admission of failure. It's an admission that you're not the only capable person in the room, and that's not a demotion.
Everyone has a part to play. A child asking for help doesn't feel diminished, because they haven't yet learned to attach their worth to self-sufficiency. Somewhere along the way, adults learn the opposite lesson, and unlearn the healthier one.
Letting go isn't losing control. I don't reach out often, not out of pride, but because I didn't want to impose. I took it upon myself. But if your hands are full, or tied, carrying more means letting go of something first.
Progress needs more than one pair of hands. I've been watching a few team-focused shows recently, and the pattern is the same every time: when one member is struggling and hides it, the whole team eventually pays for it. It's the same as the body. You never think about the skin on your fingertip until you get a paper cut, and suddenly every single thing you do involves that finger.
We tell children to ask. We rarely tell ourselves the same, and then wonder why we're depleted, carrying things alone that were never meant to be carried alone.
Maybe the goal isn't to stop being self-sufficient. Maybe it's to remember what we knew before we decided independence and worth were the same thing.
A note worth sitting with: I explored this same idea in If Humans Were Spaghetti, told through cockroaches instead of children. There's a line in there: reaching out is not a weakness, but part of navigating the heat. Same lesson, different kitchen.
If this struck a nerve, ask yourself this week: what's one thing you're carrying alone that you don't need to be?
