What if everything we were taught about strength is quietly unraveling—and something better is taking its place?
When I was a kid in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, being independent wasn’t just encouraged—it was survival.
Our parents worked long hours. We let ourselves in after school, made boxed mac and cheese, and knew better than to ask for help unless it was a true emergency. No one was coming to rescue us from social awkwardness, emotional confusion, or schoolyard politics. So we figured it out ourselves—or at least pretended to.
Fast-forward to adulthood, and that scrappy self-reliance became our badge of honor. We handled our own problems. We didn’t complain. We learned to be hyper-capable, low-maintenance, and quietly resilient.
But here’s the thing I’ve started noticing lately: many of us are tired. Not just physically—but emotionally depleted. That lone-wolf mentality? It’s showing cracks.
And for the first time, I see Gen Xers doing something radical.
We’re learning to ask for help.
Independence was once our currency
Growing up, we equated asking for help with weakness. We didn’t have the language for emotional overwhelm or mental fatigue. If you were struggling, you pushed through. If you cried, you did it privately. That was the code.
Even now, I catch myself minimizing my own stress. I’ll say things like “It’s fine, I’ve got it,” even when I don’t. That habit is deeply ingrained. It helped me succeed in my early career—especially in a corporate environment where self-sufficiency was practically worshipped.
But lately, I’ve started to wonder: how much has that belief cost me? What opportunities for connection have I bypassed in the name of competence?
The world we grew up in rewarded stoicism. But the world we’re aging into—where emotional agility matters more than image—asks something different from us.
And I think we’re finally starting to listen.
The cost of going it alone
For years, I thought handling everything on my own made me strong. In many ways, it did. But it also made me isolated.
When you never ask for help, you also never give others the chance to show up for you. I didn’t realize how lonely that could feel until I hit a rough patch—emotionally, professionally, even physically. And I was stunned by how hard it was to reach out.
Not because I lacked people who cared, but because I’d built an identity around not needing anyone.
It turns out that strength isn’t just about holding everything together. Sometimes, it’s about letting go. Letting someone else in. Admitting you’re not okay.
As Rudá Iandê writes in Laughing in the Face of Chaos, “Being human means inevitably disappointing and hurting others, and the sooner you accept this reality, the easier it becomes to navigate life's challenges.”
That quote hit me hard. Because for years, I thought asking for help would disappoint others. In reality, it connected me to them.
We didn’t have models for emotional vulnerability
Our generation didn’t grow up with therapy podcasts, self-help influencers, or language like “holding space.” Emotional vulnerability wasn’t modeled—it was masked.
Most of our parents didn’t talk about their struggles. They soldiered on, hoping we’d pick up resilience by osmosis. And we did, to an extent. But we also learned to suppress, deflect, and deny.
So now, when we feel overwhelmed or anxious, we often don’t know what to do with it. We might intellectualize it. Work through it. Or bury it under a to-do list.
But feeling something deeply and sharing it with another human being? That’s still unfamiliar terrain for many of us.
And yet, we’re learning. Bit by bit.
The book Laughing in the Face of Chaos reminded me that “Our emotions are not barriers, but profound gateways to the soul—portals to the vast, uncharted landscapes of our inner being.”
Vulnerability isn’t a liability. It’s a portal.
Midlife shook the illusion of control
If our twenties were about proving ourselves and our thirties about building something stable, midlife has been a strange kind of reckoning. Health scares. Career pivots. Aging parents. Kids going through their own struggles. Or no kids, and wondering what we’ve poured ourselves into all these years.
At some point, the scaffolding we built—our routines, our identities, even our emotional armor—starts to feel wobbly.
For me, it wasn’t one huge life event. It was a quiet accumulation of responsibilities and inner unrest. A subtle sense that holding it all together was costing more than it used to.
That’s when I began asking: What if I don’t have to do this alone?
And here’s the thing—once I gave myself permission to reach out, I found people ready and willing to meet me there. I just had to stop pretending I was fine.
We’re learning that asking is not the same as failing
This shift didn’t happen overnight. It started with small things—saying “Actually, I could use a hand with that” instead of automatically saying yes. Letting a friend know I wasn’t doing great instead of ghosting them until I felt “better.” Telling my partner I felt overwhelmed instead of bottling it up.
Every time I asked for help, it chipped away at that old story that said, If you were truly capable, you wouldn’t need anyone.
But here’s the truth I’m learning: asking for help isn’t failing. It’s adapting.
Research shows that perceived social support—such as reaching out for help—consistently buffers us from stress and protects against anxiety and depression.
Whether you're facing everyday overwhelm or deeper struggles, the act of requesting support can decrease perceived stress, elevate positive mood, and increase overall resilience
In fact, many of the most emotionally intelligent people I know are the first to reach out, not the last. They’ve stopped seeing support as something you “earn” through breakdowns and started seeing it as maintenance. Preventative care for the soul.
Because needing help doesn’t make you broken.
It makes you human.
Connection is the real measure of strength
The irony is, the more we’ve tried to prove we’re strong by doing everything alone, the more disconnected we’ve become—from others and from ourselves.
Real strength, I’m realizing, doesn’t come from white-knuckling life. It comes from being able to say, “I need you,” and meaning it. Not as a last resort, but as a natural part of being in relationship—with friends, partners, coworkers, community.
Research shows that vulnerability—like asking for help—is the foundation of deep connection, trust, and emotional resilience. It activates pathways in the brain linked to empathy and social bonding, reduces stress, and fosters a sense of belonging
People who admit they need support aren't weak—they're courageous, and they build healthier, more meaningful relationships.
I’ve watched this shift in people around me too. Gen Xers who used to pride themselves on self-reliance are now attending group therapy, calling siblings they haven’t spoken to in years, or simply asking their team at work for a bit more time and grace.
We’re no longer trying to impress each other by how much we can carry. We’re bonding over the brave act of putting something down.
And it’s changing the way we live.
We’re redefining what resilience really looks like
For a long time, resilience looked like bouncing back. Pushing through. Not letting life “win.” But that kind of grit can become brittle if it’s never allowed to bend.
What I’ve come to understand is that true resilience isn’t just surviving hard things—it’s growing through them. And that growth often happens in community, not isolation.
One of the most grounding ideas from Laughing in the Face of Chaos is this: “Embracing yourself isn't just a gift to you—it's the foundation for how you meet and move through the world.” That includes embracing the messy, uncertain parts that crave support.
The more I soften toward myself, the easier it is to receive support without guilt—and offer it without judgment.
This isn’t weakness. It’s evolution.
We’re not losing our independence. We’re expanding it to include connection.
Final thoughts
We were raised to believe we had to figure everything out on our own. But life has a way of unteaching what no longer serves us.
And right now, many Gen Xers are unlearning silence, self-containment, and the belief that needing others is shameful. In its place, we’re learning a different kind of strength—one rooted in honesty, interdependence, and emotional courage.
It’s not easy. It goes against everything we were taught to admire. But it’s freeing. And it’s real.
So if you’re tired of carrying everything solo, you’re not alone.
Maybe this is the generation where we finally realize that asking for help doesn’t diminish us—it deepens us.
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