Why is it so hard to ask for help...

...when it feels so good to be a helper?

I don’t like to ask for help.

It’s not exactly a phobia; it’s not overwhelming or paralyzing. I just don’t want to. I don’t want to need to. I don’t want to be a bother. I don’t want to appear weak or incompetent.

But sometimes I am. Weak and incompetent, I mean.

Like that time, a couple of weeks ago, when I decided the bird feeder pole needed adjusting. The arms supporting the various feeders were too high. They’d been perfect for Tom, but a big stretch – or a wobbly stand on a bucket – for me.

How hard could it be to pull it out of the ground, reposition the arms, and set it up again?

Damn hard, actually.

We had installed the pole and feeders seven summers years ago; those big prongy-things (*industry term) that hold it in place in the grass were engulfed with roots.

Fat, determined, grabby, greedy roots.

I hacked away, first with a little potting trowel. Useless. Then a heavy gardening claw. No progress

Shovels, pruning clippers... I tried everything I could find in the garage. (Except Tom’s old machete. I know some of my limits, after all.)

After making the tiniest ineffective bit of headway against the roots, I grabbed the pole with both hands, as if to strangle it, and pushed and pulled; surely I could loosen its grip, surely I could wiggle it loose, surely I could throttle it into submission, surely I could … bend it?

Yep, I could bend that pole a little. Like that would help. Oops.

After 45 minutes, I was sweating, cussing, bleeding. Why do I never remember to wear gloves until after I need them?

I took a break, found my garden gloves, assessed the situation. And started crying.

Why is everything so hard? Why can’t I do this by myself? Is this how my life is going to be now, full of half-finished projects because I’m not strong enough or tall enough or whatever enough to do it all by myself?

To make myself feel better, I catastrophized a bit. Or a lot.

What happens if I get really sick in the middle of the night and the electricity goes out and the pipes freeze, and the wifi goes down and a tree falls on the roof… what if I’m here by myself, and I can’t get up or get to the phone, or … What if What if What if?

Well, that’s not going to happen, I told myself. I’m tougher than I look. I’m independent. Hear me roar.

So I got a glass of cold water, blew my nose, and went back to the bird-feeder battle. An hour later, the roots released the pole and it surrendered, collapsed, bent and sad, on the ground.

That’s when I remembered that installing it had required both Tom and I. It’s that big, that heavy, that unwieldy.

It’s not a solo job.

***

Most of life is not a solo job, even for those of us who are solo. And I know that; I believe that; I’ve preached that. We’re better together. That’s how we’re made.

That doesn’t mean we have to be parented or partnered or assisted at every moment. Autonomy is great. Independence is great. But it’s not always enough.

Sometimes we need a little help from our friends.

We’re a social species and none of us - NONE OF US - can do it all, all by ourselves.

A StanfordReport cites the research of Stanford social psychologist Xuan Zhao, who says some of us are afraid to ask for help because we worry that we’ll appear incompetent, weak, or inferior. But we fail to recognize that most people feel good about helping others. “Asking for help is hard, but others want to help more than we often give them credit for,” Zhao says.

We underestimate just how willing people want to assist others and how positive they feel about doing so.

We shy away from asking for help because we don’t want to bother other people, assuming that our request will feel like an inconvenience to them. But oftentimes, the opposite is true: People want to make a difference in people’s lives and they feel good – happy even – when they are able to help others.

Xuan Zhao

****

Maybe this isn’t about the bird-feeder?

Maybe it’s not even about my autonomy or independence?

Maybe it’s about vulnerability.

Maybe it’s about acknowledging and naming limitations and weaknesses – literal or metaphorical? Maybe it’s about acknowledging that can’t do everything all by myself? Maybe it’s about facing the music: that I’m getting a little older each day, that I won’t always be strong, that I won’t always roar, that I can’t do it all, all the time?

And that’s okay.

In fact, it’s good. The truth is good; its sets us free.

It’s good to be honest about what we can and can’t do, to be honest and grateful that we’re not out here on a solo hike all the time. This reality sets us free to connect, to ask for help, to offer help, to be part of the world in good and healthy ways.

Maybe it’s time to normalize our need for community and mutual support?

For decades, I’ve preached about our human need for one another, how we are created for community, how we’re better together.

I’m learning, still, to ask for help.

My kind and gracious neighbors helped me with the bird feeder re-installation. They help with all kinds of things, and I hope that I can help them too sometimes, because we need each other.

We’re better together.

Help comes from every direction. Some friends help me with processing grief. Others, with learning how to navigate trains in Europe. Or bad haircuts. Or the responsibilities for an aging parent. We need each other; we’re better together.

I ask google for answers sometimes, but the people in my life - that’s where the real support happens. A search engine is nifty, but actual people who are here for us? That’s the gift, the blessing, the beauty.

And here’s the thing: If I’m lucky, they’ll let me be there for them too. My skill sets are limited, but sometimes there’s something I can do, a way I can help. So I love when someone asks for my help somewhere along the way. I want to help, to lend a hand, or an ear, or my heart. I want to be able to give back.

Sometimes I can offer what another person needs. And that’s the best feeling of all.

So maybe, just maybe? – we can ask, and we can give, and we really can be better together?