Accepting Help

I’ve always been much better at giving than receiving.

Give me a person who needs encouragement, and I’ll find the words. Give me someone who needs someone to listen, and I’ll sit with them. Give me a meal to make, an errand to run, a prayer to pray, a burden to help carry, and I’m usually the first one there.

I know how to show up for people. I know how to love people practically. I know how to give pieces of myself away without thinking twice—and often without realizing how much I’ve given away.

But ask me to let someone do those things for me, and suddenly it becomes much harder.

I think there is something deeply uncomfortable about being the one who needs help when you are used to being the one who gives it. And for me, some of that goes deeper than simply being independent.

Some of it is trauma-induced resilience.

Resilience is not a bad thing. In fact, I think it is one of the greatest strengths I have been given. It taught me how to get back up. How to keep going when life hurts. How to laugh and smile in the face of adversity. How to adapt, endure, and find another way when the path I thought I would take no longer exists.

I am grateful for that resilience.

But sometimes the very thing that helped me survive can make it difficult to know when I am allowed to stop surviving.

Because I have so often been the “broken” one. The “disabled” one. The one who needed more. The one who needed help. The one people worried about. The one with limitations. The one who, whether people meant to or not, could sometimes feel like a burden.

When you hear those things—or feel them—for long enough, they can become an echo inside your own mind.

So when I reach a point where I genuinely need help, a part of me immediately whispers:

*You should be able to do this yourself.*

*You’re asking too much.*

*You’re becoming a burden.*

*You should be stronger than this.*

*Figure it out.*

*Keep going.*

It doesn’t necessarily come from someone saying those things to me now. Sometimes it comes from somewhere much deeper—from years of learning that needing help was something I should overcome rather than something I could simply acknowledge.

And this recovery has brought some of that to the surface.

After two surgeries and nearly three weeks in the hospital, I came home feeling like I had finally broken out of the mold I had spent so long living in—the friend who is burned, the one with chronic issues, the one who struggles, the one who needs extra care. And suddenly, I found myself back in that place again.

But this time, something is different.

This time, I am rewriting the narrative.

I am learning that needing help does not mean becoming that person again. It does not erase everything I have overcome. It does not put me back at the beginning.

It simply means I am human.

And I think the Lord has been gently uncovering that truth in me.

Not ripping it open.

Not shaming me for it.

Gently.

He is teaching me that it is okay to need help.

That needing someone does not make me broken. It does not make me less capable. It does not erase my strength. And it certainly does not make me a burden.

He is teaching me that asking for help can actually be an expression of strength.

That one has been hard for me.

Somewhere along the way, I learned to associate strength with doing things myself. With pushing through. With not needing anyone. With being the person other people could lean on. With overcoming quickly enough that no one saw the full weight of the struggle.

But what if strength isn’t just knowing how to carry something?

What if strength is also knowing when you shouldn’t carry it alone?

After coming home from the hospital, I knew I needed time to recover. I knew I was exhausted. I knew my body had been through a lot.

But knowing that and actually allowing myself to live like someone who needs help are two very different things.

Because life doesn’t stop just because you are healing.

The bills still come.

The laundry still piles up.

The dishes still need washed.

Work is still there.

Responsibilities don’t disappear because your body is exhausted.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I found myself doing what I have always done.

Pushing through.

Figuring it out.

Doing it myself.

Pretending I was okay enough.

There were moments when I knew I needed to rest, but instead I thought about everything I still needed to accomplish. There were moments when someone offered to help and my first instinct was to say, “I’m okay. I’m managing.”

Even when I wasn’t.

I think sometimes we say “I’m okay” so automatically that we don’t even realize we’re saying it anymore.

Someone asks how you are, and you say fine.

Someone offers to help, and you say you’ve got it.

Someone tells you to rest, and you explain why you can’t.

And somewhere along the way, we start confusing surviving with being okay.

I have spent a lot of my life learning how to survive hard things. I know how to keep moving when things hurt. I know how to adapt. I know how to find the next step when the path ahead is unclear.

But maybe surviving isn’t the only lesson God wants to teach me.

Maybe He is teaching me how to receive.

And that has been much harder.

Because accepting help can feel vulnerable.

It means admitting you cannot do everything yourself. It means allowing someone to see the messy, inconvenient, exhausting, unfinished parts of your life. It means letting someone carry something you wish you were strong enough to carry alone.

And if I’m being completely honest, it means confronting the fears that come with receiving.

*What if I owe them something?*

*What if I become a burden?*

*What if they change their mind?*

*What if they help me now and later expect something from me?*

*What if they realize I’m not as strong as they thought I was?*

*What if I need more help than I want to admit?*

*What if they see the messy side of me and don’t like me anymore?*

Those questions can make receiving feel terrifying.

But then someone said something to me that I haven’t been able to shake.

If someone feels called to help you, and you refuse to receive simply because you are uncomfortable being helped, are you actually stopping them from giving and serving as they are called?

That stopped me.

Because I have always thought of helping as something I give people.

I never really thought about the possibility that receiving could also be a gift.

Maybe when someone brings me a meal, they aren’t just bringing me food.

Maybe they are saying, “You matter to me.”

Maybe when someone sends a card, they aren’t just sending paper through the mail.

Maybe they are saying, “I remembered you.”

Maybe when someone checks in, prays for me, runs an errand, offers to clean something, gives financially, or simply sits beside me, they aren’t trying to make me helpless.

Maybe they are giving me an opportunity to be loved in the same practical ways I have spent years loving other people.

And maybe refusing every act of love because I am afraid of needing people isn’t strength.

Maybe sometimes it is simply fear dressed up as independence.

That realization has humbled me.

I don’t want to spend my entire life pouring myself out for everyone else while refusing to let anyone pour into me.

That is a lonely existence.

Even Jesus allowed people to care for Him. He had close friends who walked alongside Him. He accepted hospitality. He allowed others to serve Him. He understood that receiving was not beneath Him.

So why do I sometimes act like it is beneath me?

I don’t want to become so determined to prove that I can do everything myself that I miss the beauty of community.

I don’t want to believe that being strong means never needing anyone, because then I will simply be alone.

We were never created to live that way.

God created us for one another.

For community.

For carrying burdens together.

For sitting in the hard places with each other.

For being the hands and feet of Jesus when someone else doesn’t have the strength to keep going.

Sometimes those hands and feet are mine.

Sometimes they are yours.

And sometimes, whether I like it or not, they have to be someone else’s hands holding me up.

That is hard for me to say.

But it is becoming easier to believe.

I’m learning that there is no shame in accepting the meal.

No shame in saying yes when someone offers to help.

No shame in admitting the laundry is too much today.

No shame in resting.

No shame in allowing someone else to carry something for a little while.

No shame in saying, “I can’t do this by myself right now.”

And perhaps most importantly, there is no shame in receiving without immediately trying to repay.

That one might be the hardest of all.

Because I am used to giving back.

Someone does something for me, and I immediately start thinking about how I can return the favor. How I can make it even. How I can prove I’m not taking advantage of their kindness.

But love was never meant to be a transaction.

Grace certainly isn’t.

God doesn’t love me because I have earned it. He doesn’t measure my worth by how much I accomplish. He doesn’t count how many people I have helped and then decide whether I am worthy of being helped in return.

And maybe I need to stop doing that to myself, too.

Maybe I am allowed to receive simply because I am loved.

Not because I earned it.

Not because I gave enough first.

Not because I proved I was strong enough.

Simply because someone chose to love me.

That is a hard lesson for someone who has spent a lifetime trying to be strong.

But I think there is a different kind of strength in opening your hands.

There is strength in saying, “Thank you,” instead of, “You really don’t have to.”

There is strength in letting someone see that you are tired.

There is strength in admitting that you need prayer.

There is strength in allowing someone else to show up.

There is strength in being honest enough to say, “I need help.”

Maybe strength isn’t always standing on your own.

Maybe sometimes strength is trusting someone enough to let them help you stand.

I am still learning this.

It still feels strange sometimes.

I still have moments when accepting help makes me uncomfortable. I still have moments when my first instinct is to say no. I still wrestle with the feeling that I should be doing more, handling more, carrying more.

But I am beginning to understand that asking for help doesn’t erase my resilience. It doesn’t take away my strength. It doesn’t make me the “broken” person again.

It simply makes me human.

And maybe there is something incredibly powerful about that.

I don’t have to prove that I can do everything alone in order to prove that I am strong.

I don’t have to suffer silently to prove that I am resilient.

I don’t have to refuse kindness to prove that I am capable.

Resilience isn’t just the ability to keep going.

Sometimes resilience is knowing when you need someone beside you as you go.

And perhaps that is one of the unexpected gifts of this season.

People really do want to show up.

They will pray.

They will send the card.

They will bring the meal.

They will check in.

They will give.

They will remind you that you are not alone.

And sometimes, the most faithful thing I can do is let them.

I think about how many times I have told someone else, “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Maybe I need to believe that for myself, too.

Maybe the person who has spent so much of her life telling everyone else they are worthy of care finally needs to believe that she is worthy of it, too.

Truthfully, that brings tears to my eyes.

Not because of what she does.

Not because of what she gives.

Not because of how strong she appears.

Just because she is loved.

So I am opening my hands.

Not because I have suddenly become comfortable needing help.

Not because I expect anyone to fix my problems.

Not because I think anyone owes me anything.

But because I am learning that sometimes love looks like giving, and sometimes love looks like receiving.

Sometimes God provides through our own hands.

And sometimes He provides through the hands of other people.

I want to be humble enough to recognize both.

I still want to be the person who shows up.

I still want to encourage people.

I still want to serve.

I still want to carry burdens when I have the strength to carry them.

But I am learning that I don’t have to carry everyone else’s burdens while pretending I don’t have any of my own.

I am allowed to be human.

I am allowed to be tired.

I am allowed to need.

I am allowed to receive.

And that is part of healing, too.

Not just healing the physical things.

Not just getting stronger.

Not just getting back to work.

Not just getting back to normal.

Healing also means letting go of the belief that I have to do everything alone.

It means allowing myself to be cared for without feeling guilty. It means letting people love me in the ways they know how. Just as the body is made up of many parts, we all have different roles to play in one another’s lives.

Accepting help does not make me less strong.

It makes me connected.

It makes me human.

It makes me part of a community.

And maybe, in a strange way, it makes me more like Jesus.

Because He was never afraid to receive from others.

So maybe God is asking me to lay that down, too.

The pride.

The fear.

The independence that became a shield.

The belief that I always have to be the one holding everyone else up.

Maybe there are seasons when I get to be held.

And maybe that isn’t failure.

Maybe that is grace.

Maybe that is community.

Maybe that is love.

Maybe that is God quietly reminding me that I was never meant to carry everything alone.

So, for now, I’m learning to open my hands.

To say yes.

To say thank you.

To let people show up.

To receive without shame.

To rest without guilt.

To be cared for without feeling like I have to earn it.

Because I am beginning to understand something I wish I had learned much sooner:

Sometimes the strongest thing we can do is admit that we need someone else.

Sometimes the person who is always carrying everyone else needs to be carried, too.

And sometimes letting someone carry you for a little while isn’t giving up.

It’s trusting them enough to let them love you.

And maybe, just maybe, it is trusting God enough to believe that He can love you through the hands of other people, too.