I’ve always been reluctant to ask for help. To pick up the phone, call a friend, and say, “this is what I need.” I’m not sure where it comes from— this idea that standing on my own two feet equates to standing alone. Perhaps it was about a fear of burdening people; of asking them to show up in ways that would weigh them down. Each person’s life is already heavy enough, and adulting is no joke. Or perhaps it’s the ego. Maybe both.
All I know is that the ego is a powerful storyteller. I’ve always had a strong awareness of my self and what she is capable of. Growing up, I focussed on my intelligence and on my speed. These were the ways I could summarise my contributions at school — getting good grades and representing my house team in races. Whenever I emerged victorious, in report cards, or by winning races, it was easy for me to inflate my ego; to add these to a list of things I had accomplished. Alone. But of course, that is not true. My family gave me the encouragement, the stability, the nourishment, to reach for things. Even now, as an adult, the lure is the same. We often hear stories about people who are self-made, or self-taught, and there is something so attractive about this— to be able to point to oneself and say, “I did this, I made this happen.”
I think of the small example of moving to Paris, of furnishing a new flat in a new city. I had come to Paris without knowing people, but by the time I was moving to my flat, I had made some acquaintances. Still, I didn’t think to ask them for help for a single second, as I lugged furniture boxes up two flights of stairs, almost crushing myself with planks of wood; as I built my writing table alone, using my legs where another pair of hands could have gone. When I look around my flat, there is pride there — to say, “I did this”. Yeah, but I almost killed myself in the process.
We live in a world of Forbes lists, of headshots that ooze success, of well-crafted Linkedin stories of accomplishments and milestones being met. We live in a world that would have us believe that doing hard things ourselves is that much more impressive than having help.
I’m starting to realise that the best things get better with the involvement of the right people. In the last five years, I have grown past this desire for a self-aggrandizing success story, to one that traces together the people who make up my life. I have become softer, allowing my ego to speak in a different way— to proclaim that the people in my life want to be there for me. Even with something as personal, as solitary as writing, I’ve had to ask for help from literary friends in reviewing my work, in making it better. And with inktippedjourneys, a platform that is rooted in the idea of community, I have come to realise that it takes a community to create a community. Every week, I am collaborating with someone else to tell African stories. And as it grows, I know that collaboration will come in new ways too.
Someone told me recently “qui a langue a Rome va”. Literally, it means, “who has a tongue goes to Rome”. Figuratively, it means that through asking for help, you’ll get where you’re trying to go. So yeah, I’ll be using my tongue.
Are you afraid to ask for help? If so, why? Let me know in the comments! I would love to discuss it with you!
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