Learning to Ask for Help

This week, we had to invite people deep into the trenches with us. It was one of the hardest things we’ve ever done, as it was one of the hardest things our family has gone through (and if you know our story, that’s saying a lot).

I had a conversation with my godsister about how much my soul rebelled against asking for help, how I am always riddled with guilt at the thought of inconveniencing others, paired with a naturally reserved personality.

In response, she said to me, “Our parents would always tell us not to tell anyone outside the family what was going on. We were never allowed to reach out for help.”

“Yeah my parents were the same.”

“Don’t be like our parents.”

Truth be told, it’s highly unlikely we would have told anyone about our current situation, had it not been necessary for the preservation of our family. After being in crisis and survival mode for the past three years, it started to feel like we were constantly in need of our people without being able to give back in the same way.

There’s an underlying cultural factor—to give and not take, so as not to be a burden to others. There’s a religious factor—to give and not take, since Jesus gave everything unconditionally, and we must be like Jesus.

I’ve always had trouble with the verse, “Ask and you will receive”. Out-of-context-Bible-quoting aside, I never knew how to ask for anything, let alone believe I’d be given what I asked for. Add to that an unhealthy emphasis on self-reliance, and you have a recipe for isolation and an attitude of self-sufficiency that spills over into my relationship with the God who gives.

But in the past week, circumstances forced our hands to reach for the people who love us.

We have always known ourselves to be extremely lucky in our family and friends; they have surrounded us with care throughout our lives, and especially the past few years as we have navigated crisis after crisis.

But this?

This was an outpouring, a flood of compassion and love filling up our house, and spilling over—so much greater than we could have imagined.

We asked, and we received.

"Right now, you need to talk to people; find every single person who will listen to you, and talk.”

At the time that advice was given to me, my circle consisted of M, and that was it. Remaining in my cocoon had landed me in the mental hospital where the therapist said this to me; keeping my pain so intensely locked away was clearly not working for me.

Three years have passed since then, and I have learned a few things I hope may help you as well:

Far more people wanted to be there for me than I thought.

I have this deeply rooted fear of burdening others. Growing up, there was a huge emphasis on the principle of protecting the family’s reputation and privacy, as well as living in a way so as not to owe anyone anything. This bred a culture of secrecy and distrust that has permeated my adult life.

Over the past week as friends and family rearranged their schedules and put their lives on hold to come into our home, M said to me, “I feel like we owe all of them a debt we will never be able to repay.”

It has taken a long time to learn that sometimes, people really do want to give—without any expectation of reward.

I am still learning, but I have also been overwhelmed with the sheer number of people willing to help our family. Each time I have thought to myself, This is the maximum and there are no more, I am proven wrong.

Our circle of community started out with just us two, and has grown and grown with each crisis, into an entire village.

Being vulnerable is like a muscle—it takes intentional practice, but it does get easier.

In three years, I went from keeping everything to myself, to sharing many of my greatest struggles openly. Opening up is still difficult, especially since my instinctual reaction is to disappear.

Instead of remaining stuck there, I keep choosing to reach out for help when I need it, even though it is not my natural response.

Perhaps one day it will feel more natural, but at least for now, I am fighting against my self-imposed isolation.

It takes practice and intentionality. It’s not easy.

For those of us used to handling everything ourselves, it’s pushing against ingrained narratives we have likely grown up hearing.

But God didn’t create humans to live on islands. “It is not good for man to be alone.” He made us to live in community, not just for the highs, but even for the lows. More and more, I have experienced what this truly means. In allowing myself to receive the love of others, I have grown in my understanding of God’s love for me.

No more hiding.