v. 57 The Helper’s Dilemma: On being the ‘helper,’ and not asking for help
Welcome to Life, Created — a weekly(ish) reflection on the wisdom of being a grown-ass human and staying curious when the world’s on fire. Part essay, part cultural commentary, and always rooted in microjoys, meaning, and the moments that make it all worthwhile.
There are certain roles we grow into so naturally that we stop noticing them. The friend who listens. The one who knows what to say. The person who can hold it all together even when things fall apart. You might know someone like that. Or maybe you are that person. I’ve been that person for as long as I can remember.
And honestly, I give good advice. Years of sharing and listening to other people’s stories have made me surprisingly adept at helping folks sort things out. My advice is practical, occasionally wise, and almost always unsolicited. I’ve become the person friends call when they’re uncertain, overwhelmed, or about to send an email they’ll regret later. Most people who know me recognize this. They also know that I have very firm boundaries. I speak directly and say no when I mean no. That steadiness makes me trustworthy, but it also means I often end up doing most of the emotional heavy lifting in conversations.
As an adult, I’ve been the friend who asks the right questions and remembers all. the. details. (“How do you remember that, Cyndie?!”) There’s something meaningful about being that person, but it’s also costly. More times than I can count, I’ve started to share something I actually need to talk through, and someone will interrupt to say, “Can I change the topic for a sec?” And of course, I smile and say yes, because that’s what I do. I help. But I also know the conversation will never circle back to my needs. And to be clear, I have very good friends, thoughtful, loving people who care about me deeply. This isn’t their fault but instead, an acknowledgment of how easily we all fall into roles that become invisible over time.
If I’m honest, this pattern isn’t anyone else’s fault. I created it. I’ve spent a lifetime showing the world that I can figure things out, and that I don’t need much. I mean, I’m quite convincing. In fact, self-sufficiency is one of my core values. I was the first in my family to do many things, and that experience taught me how to find my own way. But what I’ve learned is that self-sufficiency without balance becomes very isolating. When you’re capable, people assume you always will be. And after a while, you start to believe it too.
The helper’s dilemma (which is not my term, btw) is real. It’s what happens when your competence becomes a kind-of camouflage. You give so naturally that people forget you might need anything in return. And eventually, you forget what it even feels like to ask. I’ve been sitting with that lately; the truth that I don’t actually know how to ask for help in ways that feel natural. When my books came out, I could ask my friends to help spread the word or connect me with others, because that was tangible and clear. But when it comes to things that are less visible, I’m at a loss. What am I asking for? How do I name what I need before I’ve sorted it all out? If I’m not completely clear in the ask, I won’t say anything at all. It feels easier to stay quiet than to stumble through the vulnerability (and honestly, incoherence) of not knowing.
This has come up again recently as I’ve been reimagining my work and what I want next. I know I want to keep creating, teaching, writing, connecting, and being a spokesperson for what I believe in—these are genuinely my superpowers. But I also want to do it without carrying the full weight of working for myself. At first, I thought I wanted a job, but really, I want to be me as the job. Even saying that out loud feels… ridiculous. How do you ask for something that doesn’t quite exist? I have smart, generous, influential friends who would gladly help me figure it out, and yet I never ask. I don’t know what to ask for, and not knowing feels so uncomfortable that I say nothing instead.
And in that quiet, I’ve started to let certain friendships fade rather than talk about what’s missing. It feels cleaner somehow—less effort, less mess—but it also feels lonely. I can see how that, too, is part of the pattern. It’s easier to step back than to take on more emotional weight.
The work now is to unlearn the reflex to rescue and to remember that connection isn’t built through constant helping. I’m learning what it might mean to let people show up for me too, even if it feels weird at first. Asking for help feels more like an act of trust than a loss of capability, I suppose. This, I think, is what real strength looks like: being both the helper and the human who sometimes needs to be helped.
If you’ve found yourself in a similar place, somewhere between being the one who gives and the one who quietly wishes someone would ask how you are, consider what it could look like to let yourself be helped too. (I promise that suggestion is the last time I’ll try to be helpful. Old habits die hard. Damn.)
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
This week’s microjoy: Another fall-inspired microjoy: hiking in Cold Spring with this guy on his 47th birthday, a glass of wine outdoors in the afternoon, shopping local, and an easy hour-and-a-half drive back home. Honestly, it doesn’t get much better than that.
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With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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