You call it being independent — psychologists call it a trauma response

When I hear someone call me “so independent,” a part of me still swells with pride. I grew up earning gold stars for being low-maintenance, organized, and fine on my own.

Later, as a financial analyst, that trait paid bills. Hand me a messy spreadsheet, a last-minute deadline, or a budget blowout—I’d lock in, fix it, and need nothing from anyone but good Wi-Fi.

But there’s a cost hidden under that compliment.

I didn’t learn independence in a vacuum; I learned it as protection. At some point, I decided depending on people was unpredictable, so I trained myself out of needing anyone. It looked like strength. It felt like control. It also made my life smaller.

If this rings a bell, you’re not broken. You’re adaptive. And you can rewrite it—without abandoning your competence or your pride in being capable.

How my independence began to feel like armor

Do you know the difference between enjoying solitude and avoiding vulnerability? I didn’t. I called it “being efficient.” The truth was more tender: I used efficiency to outrun disappointment. If I never asked for help, no one could fail me. If I never needed anything, I’d never be “too much.”

Friends praised my self-sufficiency. Managers trusted me with sink-or-swim projects. On paper, I looked unstoppable. Off paper, I was lonely in a way that being social couldn’t fix.

I kept conversations safe and short. I offered help before anyone could offer it to me. And when someone did try, I’d wave it off with, “I’ve got it, thanks.”

Independence became armor that fit so well I forgot I was wearing it. The trouble with armor? It blocks arrows—and it also blocks hugs. It doesn’t discriminate between what could hurt you and what could nourish you. Over time, you realize you’ve been keeping out more than just danger.

When self-reliance turns into self-protection

Healthy autonomy is a good thing. I like paying my bills, choosing my running route, and making my own coffee. But hyper-independence—the reflex to handle everything alone—runs on fear. It’s not about capability; it’s about control.

A quick gut-check I use now: does this choice increase connection or protect me from it? Saying “I’ll figure it out” can be wise. It can also be a preemptive strike against the possibility of needing anyone.

In psychological terms, this can be a trauma adaptation—your system learned that relying on others meant risk, so it built a workaround.

Research shows that hyper‑independence often develops as a protective response to trauma, like emotional neglect or childhood instability, teaching the brain that depending only on oneself is safest.

And here’s the tricky part: the same skill that kept you safe can later keep you stuck. I had to start asking, “Is this self-reliance empowering me—or insulating me from experiences I secretly want?” That was a question I avoided for years because I wasn’t sure I’d like the answer.

What my body told me before my brain would listen

A funny thing happened when I slowed down enough to notice my body. The cues were obvious: tight jaw before asking for a favor. Shallow breath when I texted “No worries!” after someone canceled. An energy crash after a day of performing “fine.”

As noted by shamanic teacher Rudá Iandê, “Until our intellect stops fighting our emotions, there can be no true integration between these two essential aspects of our being.” That line hit me like a soft hammer.

My brain loved the story of independence; my body kept flagging loneliness and fatigue. I started treating those sensations as data, not defects.

Now, when my shoulders creep up around my ears, I ask: What am I protecting? Often, it’s the fear that if I need someone, I’ll be disappointed—or worse, a burden. Naming it loosens its grip. The body’s honesty is uncomfortable and wildly useful. It’s also been a faster teacher than any checklist or journal prompt I’ve tried.

The “I’ll do it myself” reflex (and how I retrained it)

Here’s a tiny moment that changed me: I was carrying a heavy box at the farmers’ market where I volunteer. A vendor offered to help. My mouth opened to say, “All good!”—the reflex I’ve rehearsed for decades. Instead, I said, “That’d be great, thanks.”

Nothing exploded. No one thought less of me. My nervous system, however, freaked out for about 20 seconds. Then it settled. Exposure therapy, but for receiving.

Data shows that accepting autonomy-oriented help (like someone offering to carry a box) can be empowering—boosting self-competence and positive feelings—compared to being handed a dependency-style solution.

I practiced this in less adorable places, too: at work, asking a teammate to review a draft before I over-perfected it; with friends, saying, “Actually, could you call me later? Today was rough.” The key wasn’t becoming needy. It was letting other people’s care land without immediately returning the favor or minimizing it.

The first few tries were uncomfortable—like wearing a sweater with the tag still in. But each time, I noticed something: the people who cared about me weren’t keeping score. They were glad to help. And the world didn’t suddenly decide I was less competent just because I wasn’t doing everything solo.

Boundaries, not walls

Hyper-independence often wears the costume of “strong boundaries.” In reality, it’s more like brick-and-mortar walls. True boundaries clarify what’s ours and what isn’t. Walls keep everything out—including love.

One sentence helped me drop a thousand pounds of emotional weight: “Their happiness is their responsibility, not yours.” I first underlined it in Rudá Iandê’s Laughing in the Face of Chaos (yes, the book I’ve mentioned before).

I realized I’d been over-functioning to control outcomes—solving, smoothing, rescuing. That’s not a boundary; that’s a job I was never hired for.

Boundaries say, “This is where I end and you begin.” Walls say, “You can’t come in, period.” I wanted the former but had built the latter.

It’s still a work in progress, but now I check: is this choice protecting my well-being or avoiding intimacy? That one question often tells me whether I’m holding a healthy line or hiding behind a fortress.

Relearning interdependence, skill by skill

Interdependence isn’t codependency. It’s grown-up teamwork. Think trail running with a buddy—each of you strong on your own, safer together.

I started with low-stakes reps:

• Specific asks: “Could you pick up almond milk on your way?” instead of vague hints.

• Accepting without debt: “Thank you, I appreciate it,” full stop—no immediate payback.

• Letting people show up their way: some bring soup, some send memes, some offer silence. All are care.

On tougher days, I script the request in Notes first. I also practice “good enough” dependence: asking for 10% of what I want instead of 0% or 100%. That’s less intimidating, and it lets me build trust gradually. Over time, I built a small circle of mutual support that doesn’t keep score. It’s not dramatic. It’s steady—and it’s changing me.

Redefining strength so it includes softness

For years, my definition of strength was “I don’t need anything.” It looked sleek and sounded mature. It also made intimacy impossible. Real strength includes the courage to be seen while in process.

“This is backed by experts like” Iandê who notes, “When we let go of the need to be perfect, we free ourselves to live fully—embracing the mess, complexity, and richness of a life that's delightfully real.” Perfection kept me isolated; softness lets people meet me where I actually am.

Now, strength looks like telling the truth: “I’m anxious about this launch.” “I’m proud of how I handled that meeting.” “I don’t know, but I’ll learn.” Softness didn’t erase my competence. It expanded it. And ironically, it’s made me more resilient—because I’m no longer the only one holding me up.

Letting anxiety be a messenger, not a muzzle

When I start to reach for help, anxiety still pops up. It says, “Don’t be a burden,” “You’ll owe them,” “Handle it yourself.” Those lines used to stop me. Now I treat them like weather—information, not law.

As Laughing in the Face of Chaos reminded me, emotions are messengers. Anxiety tends to guard the door to deeper wants: connection, reassurance, shared load. I pause, breathe down into my ribs, and ask, What is this protecting? Then I make a micro-move toward what I value—send the text, schedule the call, ask the colleague.

Some days I still default to “I’ve got it.” Okay. Tomorrow I try again. Progress in this area isn’t loud. It’s a quiet loosening that adds up over months.

Why rewriting this pattern is worth it

I won’t lie—changing a lifelong reflex isn’t a weekend project. It’s inconvenient. Sometimes it’s frustrating. But here’s what I’ve noticed: the more I allow people in, the lighter life feels. Not because others fix my problems, but because I’m no longer carrying the invisible weight of doing it all alone.

It’s also shifted my relationships. Friends feel closer because they get to contribute, not just receive. Work feels more collaborative, less like a performance review. And I feel more like a human in motion, not a machine executing tasks.

The best part? I didn’t lose my independence. I still make my own choices and solve my own problems. I’ve just made more room for connection alongside it.

Final thoughts

You don’t have to retire your competence to heal your independence. You can keep the parts that serve you—initiative, clarity, capability—and lay down the rest: the isolation, the performative “fine,” the exhaustion of doing it all to avoid disappointment. That’s what I’m practicing, slowly and imperfectly.

If you want a gentle companion for that process, I found Rudá Iandê’s Laughing in the Face of Chaos useful. I know, I’ve mentioned it before; it keeps surfacing because his insights nudged me to question what I called “strength” and to listen to my body more than my persona.

You don’t have to become a different person. You can become a truer one—independent when it helps, interdependent when it heals, and honest all the time.