The Power of Asking for Help

I used to think asking for help meant I was failing at life. Like if I just tried hard enough, meal-prepped enough, and kept a positive enough attitude, I could muscle my way through motherhood, marriage, work, and the general chaos of life without ever needing to say, “I can’t do this alone.”

Spoiler alert: that didn’t exactly work out.

Picture this: I’m eight months pregnant, belly out, lying flat on my kitchen floor while my naked almost-2-year-old has a full-blown meltdown because—brace yourself—he doesn’t like the chocolate covering on the Trader Joe’s ice cream cones.

And what am I doing? I’m pounding those same Trader Joe’s ice cream cones. Chocolate smeared across my face, belly pointed to the sky, just laying there on the floor like a human cautionary tale.
And I remember thinking... If someone could see me right now...

Before I had kids, I thought I was pretty capable. After kids? I thought I could still do it all. I was making Blue Apron meals that had about 47 unnecessary steps during the witching hour (a.k.a. 5–7 pm — basically hell’s happy hour). I was constantly folding laundry, psychotically cleaning a house that never looked clean (the madness), fending off our cats from stealing dinner off the counter, racing around to meet every demand from my tiny humans — all while my husband was off at jiu-jitsu. Because, of course, someone in this house had hobbies.

And then, I broke.
Not in some dramatic Lifetime movie kind of way. More like the slow-burn kind of way: a thousand passive-aggressive comments to my husband while staring dead-eyed into the dishwasher.
My resentment was loud. My cry for help? Silent.

I would ask for help... and then take it back because I felt so guilty and ashamed.
I’d say, “No no, I’ll do it,” and then simmer in resentment while doing it.
It was a real treat for everyone.

I didn’t want to ask for help because somewhere deep down, I thought it meant I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t like those moms on Instagram baking sprouted bread and peacefully meditating with their 2-week-old newborns on their chest.

I was Googling:
"How do you know if your son’s body knows how to breathe in the middle of the night without you prompting it?"

Insanity.

The turning point came when my family offered to help pay for my son to go to daycare a few days a week. It felt like both a gift and a gut punch. Daycare was expensive. We were on a tight budget, anxiously awaiting baby #2.

I sat on the floor with my mom friends, toddlers stumbling around like tiny drunk roommates, and asked, “Should I take the help?”

And they all, in unison, basically shouted: TAKE. THE. HELP.

So I did.
And it changed everything.

Was it perfect? No. Did I still feel guilt? Absolutely. But suddenly, I could breathe again. I could sit for five minutes without someone asking me for “coclate” (aka chocolate) or climbing on top of me like I was a human jungle gym.

I wasn’t failing; I was human.