One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn this year (and still unlearning) is this:

It’s okay to ask for help.

But nobody taught me how to ask for help.

And wow, was I tested on that this summer…

I was taught to handle everything on my own.

I learned how to over-function just to make sure I didn’t depend on anyone else…

This made me become someone who prides herself on being capable, independent, and “the one who holds it all together”…

Which is why asking for help has always felt like failure.

But sometimes life doesn’t wait for you to feel ready to grow.

Asking for help became my only option

Recently, due to a tax-related issue, my bank account got blocked.

While I was working on resolving it, reality hit hard: my rent was due.
And I had no access to the money I had already earned.

I had two options:

• spiral into panic and shame (which kicked in fast), or
• do the one thing I never allow myself to do: ask for help.

And not from my parents, who’ve supported me many times before.
This time, I knew it was my turn to show up for myself, as the adult I am now.

I could almost feel my inner child watching, asking me softly:
“Will you take care of us this time? Will you hold us instead of outsourcing that safety?”

So I reached out.
And I asked for help.

And what I received was not judgment, not hesitation, not shame.
What I received was kindness. “Of course. No problem.”

And in that moment, I realized: this is what being a safe adult looks like.

Not pretending everything is fine.
Not carrying the entire world on your back.
But knowing when to say: “I need a hand.”

Where Hyper-Independence Began

This wasn’t just about paying rent.
It was about repairing an old belief.

The belief that I only deserve love when I am strong.
That I am only valuable when I don’t need anything.
That asking for help equals weakness.

But it doesn’t.

As I traced this back, I realized I learned hyper-independence from love.

Two different kinds of love, pulling me in opposite directions.

My mom showed her love by protecting me.
She wanted to shield me from pain, mistakes, anything too difficult. Even now, there are moments when she still sees me as her little girl. And that care, as beautiful as it is, also whispered:
“You can’t do this on your own. You’re too small. It’s better if I do it for you.”

Then there was my dad.
He showed his love by preparing me, he pushed me to solve things on my own, even when I asked for help. He trusted I could. And that also taught me something:
“If I need help, I should try harder. If I can’t do it by myself, maybe I’m not enough.”

So I grew up with both voices inside me:
One saying, you’re not capable.
The other saying, you should be capable of everything.

And that inner conflict shaped how I move through the world today.

I swing between wanting to prove myself and secretly fearing I can’t.
Between craving support and rejecting it.
And between being the strong one and being so tired of always being the strong one.

I don’t blame my parents.
One wanted to protect me.
And one wanted to prepare me.
Both came from deep care.

But awareness changes things.

When I see where it started, I can start to choose something different.
I can learn to receive.
Just as I can learn to trust.
And learn to soften.

A Journaling Prompt

Here’s the question I journaled on that helped me begin untangling this:

“How was independence modeled in my family and how has that shaped the way I ask (or don’t ask) for help today?”

I invite you to explore this in your own journal. Write without judgment. See what memories, stories or voices come up for you. Sometimes awareness is the very first step to rewriting the story.

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This blog post is part of a personal challenge: for six months, I am returning to blogging with weekly posts. My intention is to share not just stories, but also the deeper reasoning behind journaling and storytelling as tools for clarity and growth. Writing in this way is how I hold myself accountable to the same practice I guide others through: making space to process, reflect, and transform on the page.