Help.

It can be whispered, a barely audible plea, like the soft mewing of a lost kitten, just loud enough to make you stop and listen. You follow the sound, searching for the source, and eventually you find that tiny soul in need of care.

Help can also be shouted, loud and urgent, filled with desperation and a clear cry for support. And in either scenario, running to that call is something many of us do instinctively. We help.

We hold doors open.
We shovel sidewalks for our neighbors.
We bring meals to a friend caring for her parent.
We sit with someone on the porch and share an adult beverage, just for the simple pleasure of talking with someone who understands.

Helping others comes naturally.

Help, easily given, hard to receive.

Asking for help?
Now, that’s something else entirely.

At least, it is for me.

In life and now As Doug’s care partner, I’ve come to realize that I carry a belief that asking for help is a sign of weakness. I’ve worn my independence like armor, “I’ve got this. I can do it. I don’t need help.” But lately, that armor feels heavy. It’s no longer protecting me; it’s weighing me down.

Not long ago, in a completely unplanned moment of emotional exhaustion, I asked my sister, who had just driven from Redmond to drop off a love package, to stay for a few minutes so I could talk with her. My dearest friend and sister at heart, Cinda, was also visiting, and I suddenly realized I had an unexpected opportunity: a quiet moment with two of the most important people in my life.

What I intended to be a ten-minute check-in turned into a two-hour heart-to-heart. Their calm presence, quiet willingness, and the absence of pressure and their own sheer deterimination to hold back their tears as my poured opened a door I didn’t even realize I had been keeping closed.

In that moment, I realized something powerful: I had to find a way to ask for and receive help. 

Both Cinda and my sister Patti offered support in different, loving ways. Accepting it, however, was still incredibly hard. I had to sit in the discomfort of where I was emotionally and mentally and then finding one small place where I could allow help in.

For me, that place was meals.
I’ve always loved cooking, but lately, the constant cycle of planning, shopping, preparing, cooking, serving and cleaning three times a day has turned something I once loved into something I quietly dread. What was once joyful now feels like just another chore.

So, I started small.

Patti, being her kind and generous self, offered to cook several meals a week. That felt like too much at first, so we agreed to one day a week. She brings the groceries, cooks a full meal for Doug and me, and always enough for leftovers.

My neighbor, Sharon, bless her soul shares fabulous meals with me as well

I am finding that what might sound simple, is earth moving for this woman. The relief that comes from not having to think about food for two or three whole meals has been a gift.

Both incredible women giving, willingly, lovingly help. I’m still learning how to receive. I still catch myself wanting to say, “It’s okay, you don’t have to come today.” I don’t have this whole “accepting help” thing down yet, and I know I’ll continue to wrestle with it.

But I’m working on it.

To all of you who offer help please don’t give up on those of us who need it. Be patient. We’ll get there. And in time, we’ll come to understand that receiving help isn’t weakness. It’s GRACE.