We're All Struggling- So Why Are You Judging Me?

Why let me make memories with you just for you to stop them now?

I used to think help meant care. That when someone saw me drowning, they’d reach out because they wanted to see me okay. But now, I’m not so sure. Somewhere along the way, “help” started to come with strings attached — a favor you’d throw in my face later, or worse, something I had to earn by breaking myself down first.

I don’t want to ask for help anymore. Not when asking makes me feel like a burden instead of a person. Not when the people I trusted turned the word support into something sharp.

The truth is, a lot of adults have failed people like me. Not just in the way they don’t listen, but in how they try to teach lessons that don’t even work in their own lives. I’ve seen grown people struggling to survive in this economy — still living paycheck to paycheck, still searching for peace. And yet, they’re quick to say, “This is how the real world works,” like they’re proud of the pain they never healed from.

It hurts worse when those lessons come with judgment. I’ve seen adults tear down teenagers with more cruelty than they’d ever dare show each other. Maybe it makes them feel powerful. Or maybe they just forgot what it’s like to be young and raw and figuring it out.

There’s always darkness before the light, they say. But sometimes, the darkness doesn’t come from life — it comes from the very people who were supposed to guide you through it.

I’m still here, still learning how to ask for help without guilt. Still learning who’s safe and who’s just performing support. And maybe that’s the real world too — not the broken system they warn us about, but learning how to hold your own heart when others keep dropping it.

I’ve spent so much time trying to hold it all together, convincing myself that asking for help was a sign of weakness, that I could handle everything alone. But the truth is, no one can carry the weight of the world by themselves. I’ve learned that asking for help doesn’t mean I’m broken — it means I’m human. It means that I’m strong enough to admit when I need support, even if it’s hard. The process of learning to trust again, of finding people who will offer genuine care without conditions, is a slow and painful one. But each time I reach out and receive help without strings attached, it reminds me that not all hands are extended with ulterior motives. Maybe, just maybe, there are people out there who still believe in unconditional support. Maybe there are people who understand that true help doesn’t come with expectations, but with the simple hope of seeing someone thrive.

I’ve realized that learning to ask for help isn’t just about finding the right people — it’s also about learning to trust myself. For a long time, I doubted my worthiness, thinking I wasn’t deserving of help unless I had first earned it through sacrifice or struggle. It’s taken time to unlearn that belief. The idea that I must prove my pain, or perform for others, just to be seen as worthy of compassion is a trap I don’t want to fall into anymore. I want to believe that I am valuable simply because I exist, not because I’m able to endure endless hardships without complaint. It’s a hard lesson to swallow, but a necessary one if I’m ever going to heal.

There’s also something to be said about the way we, as a society, view strength. We admire those who stand tall and carry their burdens without faltering, but we rarely give space for the vulnerability that comes with needing help. It’s as if we’ve been conditioned to think that strength means doing it all on your own. But real strength isn’t about isolation or endurance — it’s about recognizing when to ask for a hand, when to lean on someone else, and when to allow yourself to be supported. It’s about embracing your humanity without shame.

Life is hard. I don’t have friends because I was scared to speak up, communicate, and participate. I kept to myself, always too afraid to be vulnerable and share my feelings and emotions. I thought keeping everything inside would protect me, but all it did was isolate me even more. I missed opportunities to build connections and find people who could relate to my struggles because I never allowed myself to be seen. The fear of judgment and rejection was too strong, so I chose silence instead. But now, I see how that silence has held me back from finding the support I needed most.

So, as I continue to navigate this journey of self-acceptance, I’m learning to redefine what it means to need others. It’s not a flaw or a weakness — it’s an acknowledgment that we are all interconnected, and that sometimes, the greatest act of strength is allowing others to be there for you. That’s what I want to remember moving forward — that asking for help is an act of courage, not a burden.