The Art of Asking for Help

I don’t like asking for help, plain and simple. It’s an uncomfortable thing to ask of anyone around me. Whether it’s help with something, money, planning, or anything. It just doesn’t sit right with me. For almost my entire life, I lived that way, thinking that asking for help was a sign of weakness, that it was a last resort that half the time I didn’t even consider a resort in the first place. It wasn’t until I was stranded in a Bangkok airport with no money and waiting for a visa for Vietnam that I reluctantly swallowed my pride and asked for help.

I had been volunteering in Vietnam for a month when it was time to do the famous visa run. In Vietnam, you need to renew your visa once a month, which can be easily done by flying into a different country, renewing, and flying back the same day. When my turn came, I flew to Bangkok. With my bad luck, my visa didn’t come in as fast as I’d hoped. I was in Bangkok airport, with barely any money, no place to sleep, and the hope that my visa would get approved as soon as possible. What should’ve been less than ten hours in the airport turned into an overnight stay, sleeping on uncomfortable chairs pressed against the wall so I wouldn’t fall off. The morning came, and my visa got approved, but with no money for a flight back, I was still screwed. After a couple of hours of scrambling for a solution, I did something that I didn’t think I would do for a long time: call my dad. My dad and I had a complicated relationship that led to us not speaking for more than three years. At this point, I wouldn’t know if he would even pick up the phone, let alone help me. But I had to try. I was at the end of my wit, and I needed a way out.

So, I called him. I called a man I hadn’t spoken to for years to ask for his help in the middle of Southeast Asia. The conversation went unexpectedly okay. I was expecting a full lecture on making bad decisions and irresponsibility. Instead, for the first time in my life, I heard fear in my dad’s voice. He was worried about me, and even though the last time we spoke, we fought for hours, it was like that didn’t matter anymore. He helped me, got me a flight back to Vietnam and back home, and gave me some change to help me survive my time in Asia.

It took a moment for me to realize what had just happened. I told my dad I loved him, and before hanging up the phone, I could hear his voice break and realized that it was something he had wanted to hear for a long time. The money landed in my bank account, and I just stared at it. Where used to be a measly seven euros was that same seven but with two extra zeros. I felt saved, relieved, but weird at the same time. I didn’t know how to feel; so much was happening at once, and I felt frozen to my chair, just staring out at nothing, letting my thoughts take over for a bit.

Growing up, I always wanted to be independent. I was in my own world, did my own things, and just couldn’t wait to be old enough to do whatever I wanted. At sixteen, I wished I could move out of my parents’ house and live on my own. My life, my house, my rules. Unfortunately, I had to accept that I wasn’t at all mature enough at that age to live on my own, let alone take care of myself completely. However, when I turned eighteen, that’s when it happened. I got to move out, live on my own, and do what I had wanted to do for so long. It kick-started a life of independence that ultimately led me to leave my hometown forever to travel the world and discover what this planet had to offer.

It wasn’t glamorous. I spent a lot of time living on dimes and relying on others’ generosity to get by. This generosity gave me the opportunity that changed the trajectory of my life forever: a job in Paris. The receptionist at the hostel I had stayed in for months, who had consistently shaved off a couple of euros off the bed prices for me, recommended me to his former employer. I had fallen in love with Paris from the moment I stepped off the train, and I was determined to stay as long as I could. This man, virtually a stranger, had, probably without realizing it, given me a lifeline. It wasn’t verbal, it wasn’t a big gesture. It was a nod and showing me the screen as he changed the prices in my reservation. All I could do was nod back and try my hardest to make the most of the extra time he gave me. Since then, it’s been job after job, country after country, making my way slowly through the world. I’d like to tell you that I did all of that by myself, but the truth is, and the core of this article, is that I had a lot of help.

For the last two months, the trajectory of my path has changed dramatically. I left Amsterdam due to losing my job and my home at the same time. I ran out of money, and I simply didn’t know what to do. The generosity of my friends is what has allowed me not to end up on the street somewhere. Even though I still don’t feel good about the fact that I did it, tucking my tail between my legs and stuttering my way through the question of ‘’can you help me?’’, I now understand that sometimes we have to be blunt about it and ask for help when we really need it.

An old friend of mine told me recently that no one successful has made it without help from someone or something. The more I go through life, the more I realize it’s true. Being fully independent doesn’t exist anymore. No matter your background or the path you’re on, you’ll receive help from somewhere that’ll push you a bit further into your journey to make it to where you want to be. Personally, that made me uncomfortable for a long time.

I used to think asking for help was a weakness. Like it meant I was failing at being independent, at holding my life together. I grew up believing I had to figure things out on my own, and when I couldn’t, I buried it under pride.

But pride doesn’t pay bills. It doesn’t keep you afloat when the ground falls out beneath you.

The first time I really asked for help, I was sitting in a bar in Amsterdam with two friends. My voice felt like it was caught in my throat, each word heavy and awkward. I stumbled, stuttered, and hesitated. The shame hit before the words even landed.

Still, I asked. And instead of judgment, what I got was kindness. A reminder that the people in my life didn’t need me to be unbreakable, they just needed me to be real. Amsterdam left me with that memory of sitting across from friends, stuttering my way through the question of “Can you help me?”

Turns out, asking for help doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you human.