Well, you donʻt ask for help

I’ve had a few people say to me, “Well, you don’t ask for help.” It’s usually delivered like a revelation—as if that’s the missing piece to everything. It’s not said with care or genuine concern. It feels more like a deflection, something that helps them feel better. Because if I never asked, then they were never obligated. If I didn’t reach out, they didn’t really fail me. It’s easier to shift the weight onto me, to paint me as self-isolating rather than acknowledge their own absence or discomfort.

But the truth is—I have asked. I’ve asked against my better judgment: to family who don’t really know me, to family who’ve long shown themselves to be unreliable or self-involved. I’ve asked people who offered help when it was easy to say the words—when it made them feel good or generous—but when the time came, they weren’t actually available. And when you’ve had enough of those moments—where the help never comes, or it comes laced with guilt or disappointment—you start asking less. Not because you don’t need support, but because the emotional cost of unmet help is too high.

I’ve even had people get angry at me for not asking. As if my silence was some kind of betrayal. But those reactions only validated that I shouldn’t ask for their help—that their help,came with strings. They made it about their hurt feelings, their need to feel needed, their discomfort. Not about what I actually needed.

This isn’t about blame. I think most people genuinely mean well. But I also think we don’t talk enough about what real support looks like. The kind that doesn’t come wrapped in ego or guilt. The kind that doesn’t need recognition, or performance, or a particular kind of thank-you. Just presence. Just care.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m being too picky—if I should just take what I can get. Isn’t that what they say? Beggars can’t be choosers. But the truth is, when the help comes at such a high emotional cost, when it adds more pressure than relief, when it leaves me feeling more isolated than supported, then it’s not really help. And I’ve learned, slowly and sometimes painfully, that I have the right to be discerning about who I let close, especially when things are already hard.

People don’t always show their struggle in ways that are easy to understand. So before you judge how someone handles their pain, ask yourself if you’re really seeing them, or just reacting to your own discomfort. Meet people where they are—and leave your expectations at the door. Survival takes many forms. Not all of them look like suffering.