Why It’s So Hard to Accept Help—and Why We Need to Try Anyway
When my youngest turned three, he’d been dreaming of his birthday party for months—chatting up anyone who would listen about the backyard celebration he was going to have. It wasn’t anything extravagant. Just a handful of busy kids running around. There was a piñata, a homemade layer cake, snacks, and a simple macaroni-and-cheese lunch. Still, I was drained.
The next weekend, my oldest turned six. Another party. More cleanup. Less rest.
As much as I love celebrating milestones and hosting people, I tend to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. I have a hard time asking for help. Am I alone in this?
I was lucky this time. In honour of the birthdays, my mother made the twelve-hour drive from New Brunswick to our little home in Québec. While the house felt fuller with two extra people and a springer spaniel who likes to sprawl, it also felt easier. The kids were entertained. Meals were less stressful and cleanup happened quietly in the background.
This is Lolah. Her favourite place to sprawl is in front of the fridge.
I worried about the party, but while I buzzed around busy as a bee trying to make sure everyone was happy, my mom quietly worked in the background. She made sure there were enough clean plates and forks for everyone. She was the reason the tray of mac and cheese didn’t burn in the oven.
I was too overwhelmed to answer “What can I do?”
My mother didn’t ask—she jumped right in and helped.
If it had been anyone but my mother, I likely would have declined.
Why is that my instinct?
The Cost of Doing It All Alone
Somewhere deep in my brain is a belief that asking for help is rude. I know it isn’t logical, but it feels deeply ingrained. Maybe you’ve felt it too: the pressure to hold it all together, to show up perfectly, to never need anything from anyone.
We weren’t always like this.
In cultures outside of North America, families live together, help one another, and share responsibilities across generations. Grandparents care for children. Aunts and uncles are nearby. Cousins are more like siblings. There’s a web of support.
It’s a symbiotic system—and it works.
Here, in North America, that village is harder to come by.
A Story That Stuck With Me
Around the time of the birthday parties in question, I was reading Anna Hibiscus by Atinuke to my then almost-six-year-old. It’s a children’s book set in Africa, where Anna lives in a big compound with her parents, brothers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. They cook together, eat together, play together. The grandparents settle disputes and pass down stories.
It sounds idyllic. And it made me feel unexpectedly lonely.
My Roots and the Distance Between Us
My family structure was fractured before I was born. Both sets of grandparents left Germany for Canada, leaving behind their families. When my mother and her siblings grew up, they scattered, like dandelion seeds on the wind. My father’s family stayed together, but with an instinct to float away, my mother left him, too.
Because of that, I didn’t grow up with cousins close by. Reunions happened every few years, but faded away before I reached adulthood. I didn’t get the chance to grow close with my grandparents or extended family.
My mother spent much of my childhood as a single parent. I learned from her how to be strong and self-reliant. But I also learned how to be an island.
We either learn to isolate ourselves, or we learn to cooperate.
What I’ve Learned About Help
After I had my first child, people offered to help. I was a milky mess. Hormonal. Sleep-deprived. My house was upside down. I didn’t want anyone to see me, let alone come over. I said no to every offer—except one.
A kind acquaintance asked me not if she could help, but when she could come. She brought a nourishing snack, ushered me to the bedroom, and told me to rest. Then she quietly did the housework.
It remains one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.
Let’s Rebuild the Village—One Small Act at a Time
Instead of asking, “Is there anything I can do?”
Let’s start asking, “What time should I come over?”
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Bring food.
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Watch someone’s kids.
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Clear the table.
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Start the dishes.
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Dust when no one is looking.
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Pull some weeds from the garden.
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Drop off soup when someone’s sick.
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Offer support without waiting for a green light.
We were never meant to do this alone.
We were never meant to be islands.
☀ Reader Reflection
Have you ever struggled to accept help—or known someone who did? What would it look like to lean into community, even just a little more?
Love and gratitude,
Sylvia
Note: This post was adapted from my original post on Substack.
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