Last week, I set out in the morning to sit and write in the local juice bar only to find it completely packed. Feeling disappointed and thwarted in equal measure, I turned towards home, figuring that at least I could stop by the organic store on my way.
Unfortunately, once I was there, I couldn’t remember for the life of me what I had needed to get (it had been non-dairy ice cream, so I guess it was more of a want than a need…)
Feeling defeated, I again turned my feet towards home.
As I passed by some shops, an acquaintance of mine pulled up on her bike. We exchanged pleasantries and as I turned to go, she asked, “Could you stay with me for a minute?”
The words were hard for her to get out, but easy for me to answer.
When I continued home an hour later, I felt entirely differently about my morning. The full juice bar and forgotten ice cream felt like serendipity. They’d allowed me to be in the right place at the right time, to support someone who was in crisis.
But, then I realized that it wasn’t being in the right place at the right time that had allowed me to feel helpful, it was the bravery of my friend and her ability to ask for help when she needed it (an ability that I admire, but rarely possess).
It made me wonder if the hero’s journey that we love to recount in so many ways in our world is actually being told all wrong. What if the hero is actually the one who’s vulnerable enough to ask for help and not the one who’s able to do the helping?
In the moment where someone is able to say, “I need you,” and the other person is able to answer, “I’m here,” there is a magic that happens that rivals Narnia and Harry Potter.
It’s the beginning of meaning, of connection and of community.
It’s when we can make space for our fundamental humanness. We can forgive ourselves our imperfections because we understand that they’re part of the shared human experience.
We’re pack animals who’ve bought into a lie of separation that fuels our pain and isolation. Instead of believing in mutual support, we’ve come to worship the idea that strength is stoic suffering.
We want to be perceived as strong, capable and self-sufficient at all times. We don’t want to bother others with our fears, anxieties and moments of desperation.
When we suffer in silence, we rob ourselves of comfort, connection and the knowledge that we’re never alone in our suffering.
When we suffer in silence, we rob others of the chance to feel useful, connected and to know that they’re never alone in their moments of suffering.
None of this is easy, but then again, few things that really matter ever are.
But, maybe, if together we start to rewrite the hero's story and put the glory and bravery where it’s deserved, onto the one who was able to ask for help, then we can allow ourselves a little window of space where our own needs can shine through.
Maybe, 'I need help', can be the new cry of the esteemed sorcerer and bravery and vulnerability can lie hand in hand at the gateway of our next adventure.
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