Still Learning Softness
When I speak about my healing era, one truth stands out above all else: I used to wear my hyper-independence like a badge of honor. It was my armor, my proof to myself and the world that I could handle life alone. I didn’t need help, I told myself. I didn’t need softness or vulnerability. But what I didn’t understand back then was that my hyper-independence wasn’t strength. It was fear in disguise.
For as long as I can remember, I equated asking for help with weakness. Somewhere along the line, I’d absorbed a lesson that being self-sufficient meant being worthy. Maybe it was the way I watched the adults around me soldier through life’s storms in silence. Or maybe it was the applause I’d receive for being “so strong” or “so put together” during difficult times. Either way, I built my fortress high and tight. The walls were impenetrable—but they also kept love and connection out.
Hyper-independence often comes from a place of deep survival. For me, it was born out of moments where I felt like I had no one to lean on, no one willing or able to hold me in my moments of vulnerability. It was a coping mechanism, a way to stay afloat in a world that sometimes felt too harsh. But over time, what initially felt like strength became suffocating. The truth is, no one is meant to carry the weight of the world alone.
One of the hardest truths I had to confront was how my hyper-independence affected my relationships. I told myself I was protecting people by not putting my burdens on them. I didn’t want to be a bother—or worse, risk rejection. But what I was really doing was creating distance. People who cared about me wanted to help, but my walls made it impossible to get close.
The turning point came during a season of burnout. I was exhausted—not just physically but emotionally. I was carrying so much, and the cracks were too big to ignore anymore. One day, a friend called during a particularly tough moment. Instead of my usual “I’m fine,” I admitted, “I’m struggling.” The kindness in her voice when she said, “Tell me what you need,” was like a balm for my soul. It was such a simple moment, but it felt monumental. It was the first time I allowed myself to consider that maybe needing someone wasn’t weak—it was human.
Unlearning hyper-independence is a slow process, like peeling back layers of armor you forgot you were wearing. It’s uncomfortable at first. Vulnerability can feel exposing, even risky. But my healing taught me that softness doesn’t mean a lack of strength. It’s quite the opposite. It takes immense courage to admit you need help, to open your heart to connection instead of retreating behind those familiar walls.
Softness became my strength when I stopped seeing it as something to overcome and started seeing it as a way to heal. I began asking myself gentle questions during moments of stubborn independence. What would it feel like to share this burden? Could I allow myself to receive support without guilt? Sometimes the answer came slowly, but even just asking was progress.
If you’re on a similar path, my first piece of advice is this: be patient with yourself. Unlearning hyper-independence isn’t about flipping a switch. It’s about small, deliberate choices. Start by letting people in, little by little. Ask for help in tiny ways—a ride when you need one, a listening ear, an honest conversation about how you’re feeling. And when someone shows up for you, resist the urge to downplay your needs or apologize. Receive their kindness fully.
Second, practice rewiring your thinking about vulnerability. For years, I told myself that being soft made me weak. But now I see that vulnerability is one of the most authentic expressions of strength. It’s the courage to show up as you are, imperfect and human, and trust that the people who love you can hold space for that.
And finally, remind yourself that connection isn’t a one-way street. When you allow someone to help you, you’re giving them the gift of intimacy. It’s an opportunity for them to feel trusted, valued, and connected to you. Softness opens the door to relationships that are richer and more reciprocal than you could imagine.
This healing era of mine hasn’t been about becoming less independent. It’s about redefining strength and realizing that I’m at my best when I allow myself to lean on others. Softness didn’t make me weaker—it made me whole. It reminded me that even the strongest among us need to be held sometimes. And that’s not just okay—it’s beautiful.
