I grew up as a latchkey kid in the late ’70s and early ’80s. During that time, I often found myself navigating the world on my own. My days were filled with moments of curiosity and self-discovery. For instance, there was a time I meticulously deconstructed an old alarm clock. I dismantled it and pieced it back together again more than once. The thrill of understanding how things worked was intoxicating, yet it came with its own set of risks. I remember almost losing an eye to battery acid taking apart a D cell battery. The incident was both enlightening and dangerous.
These experiences instilled in me a fierce sense of independence. I learned early on that if I wanted something done, I had to do it myself. It was a survival strategy, a way to navigate the often unpredictable world around me. But as the years passed, this hyper-independence became a double-edged sword, especially in my relationships.
On one hand, I was the consummate people-pleaser, always striving to meet others’ needs and expectations. On the other, I was staunchly independent, convinced I didn’t need anyone’s help. This dichotomy caused a constant tension within me. It was a push and pull. This tension left me feeling isolated, even in the company of those I loved.
Healing this rift required a journey inward. I had to learn to practice self-compassion. It was important for me to accept that it was okay to need help. It was also okay to ask for it. Understanding that seeking assistance wasn’t a sign of weakness but rather a natural part of being human was transformative. It was a lesson in vulnerability, one that taught me that allowing others to help me didn’t diminish my strength—instead, it amplified it.
I found a new strength by opening myself up to the possibility of support. This strength was rooted in connection rather than isolation. It’s an ongoing process. This dance between independence and interdependence is continuous. Each step brings me closer to a balance that feels both empowering and authentic.
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