Latest / The Breakup Club: Heartbreak, Healing & Starting Over / Why You’re Still Asking for Help: The Shame of Basic Adult Tasks | The Breakup Club
Transcript
- You just stood in the middle of your kitchen, staring at a dishwasher that wouldn’t start, and felt a wave of panic so sharp it nearly brought you to tears. Not because you didn’t know how to fix it, but because you suddenly felt like a fraud who had been pretending to be an adult this whole time. Let’s get real for a second. We need to talk about that specific, gnawing shame that shows up when life gets mechanical. You know the feeling. It’s not the big tragedies. It’s not the funeral or the job loss. It’s the small, mundane moments where your internal narrative cracks open. Maybe it was the sink leak last Tuesday. Or the car that made a noise you couldn’t identify. Or today, maybe it was the Wi-Fi router blinking that angry red light while you tried to join a work Zoom call from your bathroom. In those moments, there is a voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like your father, or that one high school teacher, or just society at large, whispering, 'When did you forget how to do this? When did you become incompetent?' And if you are a woman, especially if you have spent years navigating relationships where you were either the caretaker or the cared-for, that voice is loud. It tells you that you are one step away from being exposed as a child playing dress-up in adult clothes. You look around your apartment and wonder, 'How long can I keep this up before someone finds out I’m actually three people in a trench coat?' I want you to take a deep breath right now. Put down whatever you are holding. I am telling you, with the full force of my own messy, imperfect experience, that this shame is a lie. It is a fabrication. But it feels so visceral, so physical, that dismissing it feels impossible. So we are going to sit with it. We are going to name it. Because until we name the monster under the bed, it stays there, growing larger every time we pretend to sleep. Here is the truth that nobody puts on Instagram: no one knows what they are doing. None of us. There is no certification exam for adulthood. There is no final boss level you defeat to unlock the badge that says, 'Okay, you’re safe now. You can relax.' You just… keep going. And part of keeping going is admitting that you don’t have all the answers. I remember a few years ago, after my divorce, I called a plumber because my garbage disposal was making a sound like a dying animal. I sat on my kitchen floor, waiting for him to arrive, clutching a glass of wine that had gone warm, feeling utterly defeated. I thought, 'Caitlyn, you’re thirty-two. You have a career. You have friends. How do you not know how to unclog a drain?' I felt small. I felt broken. But here is what happened when the plumber arrived. He wasn’t impressed by my knowledge of plumbing. He didn’t care if I could wire a house. He just wanted to know if I had tried turning it off and on again. And when I said yes, he smiled and said, 'Well, then let me show you.' He didn’t judge me. He didn’t say, 'You should have known that.' He just helped. And in that moment, I realized something profound: asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of intelligence. It’s the smartest thing you can do. We have been sold this idea that independence means doing everything alone. That needing assistance is a failure of character. But that’s not true. Independence is knowing what you can do, and having the courage to admit what you cannot, without attaching your worth to that admission. You are not failing at adulthood. You are participating in it. Now, I have to address the elephant in the room. This shame hits women differently. From a young age, many of us are conditioned to believe that our value lies in our ability to manage the emotional and logistical labor of others. We are taught to be the planners, the fixers, the ones who hold the family together. When things break—whether it’s a relationship or a faucet—we feel responsible for fixing them. If we can’t, we feel defective. There is a particular kind of grief in realizing that the person you relied on for certain skills is no longer there. Maybe you used to ask your partner to change the oil in your car. Maybe your ex-husband handled all the tech support. When that safety net disappears, you are left standing in the void, wondering if you ever actually learned anything, or if you were just outsourcing your competence. That realization is terrifying. It feels like losing a limb. But let’s look at that fear closely. Is it really about the task? Or is it about the identity shift? You are moving from a place of reliance to a place of autonomy. And autonomy is scary. It requires you to trust yourself in ways you haven’t had to before. It requires you to make mistakes. It requires you to call customer service and navigate the automated menu without crying. It requires you to stand in line and fill out forms. These tasks are not tests of your loveability. They are not metrics of your success. They are simply tools. And tools can be learned. Tools can be borrowed. Tools can be hired out. You are allowed to hire out. You are allowed to learn slowly. You are allowed to be a beginner again. I want to challenge you to reframe the concept of 'need.' In our culture, neediness is often treated as a dirty word. We are told to be self-sufficient, to be strong, to not burden others. But humans are not designed to be islands. We are social creatures. We survive through connection. And sometimes, connection looks like admitting you are stuck. Think about the last time you asked a friend for help. Did they reject you? Did they roll their eyes and call you incompetent? Or did they likely say, 'Oh, honey, let me help you with that'? Usually, the latter. Most people want to be useful. Most people find joy in solving problems for the ones they love. When you refuse to ask for help, you are denying them the opportunity to connect with you. You are building a wall where there could be a bridge. This doesn’t mean you should never try to learn. Of course, you should learn. Growth is beautiful. But there is a difference between learning out of curiosity and performing competence out of fear. If you are afraid to ask because you think people will think less of you, that is the shame talking. That is the old story trying to keep you small. Let it go. Let it fall away. You are worthy of help. You are worthy of patience. You are worthy of grace when you are struggling. And here is the secret: when you allow yourself to be vulnerable about your struggles, you give others permission to do the same. You create a space where authenticity can thrive. You stop the performance. And in that space, real connection happens. So, how do we move forward? How do we deal with the next time the dishwasher breaks or the computer crashes? First, pause. Notice the shame. Say it out loud. 'I am feeling ashamed right now because I don’t know what to do.' Naming it takes away its power. Second, assess the situation. Do you absolutely need to know how to fix this right now? Can you call someone? Can you watch a YouTube video? Can you wait until tomorrow? Third, choose kindness over criticism. Talk to yourself like you would talk to your best friend. If your best friend came to you and said, 'I don’t know how to reset the modem,' would you scream at her? Would you tell her she’s useless? No. You would probably laugh, hand her a coffee, and help her figure it out. Treat yourself with that same compassion. Fourth, build your toolkit. Start small. Learn one new skill a month. Change the air filter. Jump-start a battery. Read the manual. Celebrate these small victories. Each time you successfully navigate a task, you build confidence. You prove to yourself that you are capable. But remember, capability is not about doing it all alone. Capability is about knowing how to access resources. That includes people. That includes professionals. That includes your own resilience. You are not falling behind. You are exactly where you need to be. Learning is a lifelong process. There is no deadline. There is no pass or fail. There is just you, trying your best, in a world that is constantly changing. And you are more than enough, even when you are confused. I want to leave you with this thought: perfection is the enemy of progress. If you wait until you feel fully competent, fully ready, fully confident to act, you will wait forever. Act anyway. Ask anyway. Struggle anyway. The struggle is not a sign that you are failing. The struggle is the process of becoming. It is the friction that polishes the stone. You are allowed to outgrow the idea that you must be perfect to be loved. You are allowed to be a work in progress. You are allowed to be messy, confused, and occasionally helpless. These are not flaws. They are features of being human. And you are beautifully, thoroughly human. Take a deep breath. Look around your space. See the things that are broken, the things that are unknown. See them not as threats, but as invitations. Invitations to grow, to connect, to learn. You have survived 100% of your bad days. You have figured out more than you give yourself credit for. Trust yourself. Trust the process. And if you need help, ask for it. Loudly. Proudly. Without apology. Because the truth is, you are not a fraud. You are a fighter. And fighters sometimes need a break. And that is okay. Thank you for letting me into your day. Thank you for listening, for feeling, and for showing up as your authentic self. I’ll see you next time. Until then, be gentle with yourself. You’re doing great. Love you.