🪺Glimmer Nest: The Courage in Asking

Navigating the Challenges of Seeking Help

In seventh grade, I sat in history class, third from the bottom in a class of twenty-four, drowning in self-doubt. But one teacher saw past my silence. He noticed something others had missed – how I could discuss historical events with depth and understanding in conversation, yet falter completely on written tests. When he took the time to read a test aloud to me, letting me talk through my answers, I scored 89%. That moment, though not one where I asked for help, planted a seed about being seen, about the power of someone noticing what we cannot say.

Today, decades later, I'm still learning the lessons about asking for help that my younger self couldn't grasp.

You know that common childhood advice – "Make sure you ask for help if you need it"? Somehow that message got lost in translation for me, replaced instead by an overwhelming pressure to "not be a bother." Research shows many of us struggle with this, but the reasons run deeper than simple stubbornness or pride.

For me, it began with watching my parents work tirelessly to keep our family financially afloat. Every unspoken need became a brick in the wall I built around myself. I became an expert at silence, at making do, at finding ways around instead of asking for a way through.

One of the most paralyzing barriers to seeking help is the fear of appearing weak or incompetent. During my darkest periods with dissociation, this fear became almost tangible. The thought of reaching out to anyone felt like standing on the edge of a cliff over waves of uncertainty – the risk of being locked up, questioned, dismissed, or worse, not believed, kept me frozen in place. The fear of dismissal wasn't just emotional; it was physical, a weight pressing against my chest, keeping the words trapped inside.

Photo by R.Katharine C. Nisson ©2025

Cultural influences wove their own complex patterns into this tapestry of silence. Even with loving parents, I developed a deep distrust of systems and institutions. Like my struggles with undiagnosed learning differences in school, each dismissal, each overlooked cry for help, reinforced the message: keep it to yourself.

This pattern followed me into my professional life, where imposter syndrome added another layer to the challenge. At work, I would "make it work," "fake it," and sometimes even cut corners to appear like I had everything together – not unlike that seventh-grade girl trying desperately to prove she belonged. Now, working for myself, I've found a precious pocket of breathing room, a space where checking in with myself and acknowledging my need for support feels less like failure and more like wisdom.

But the most profound lesson about asking for help came in my darkest moment. Rocking slowly in the corner of my closet one night, my husband and son sleeping soundly in the adjacent rooms, I made a final desperate reach toward hope. I messaged TWLOHA (To Write Love on Her Arms) on Instagram about their BetterHelp scholarship promotion, telling myself that if I didn't get approved, it was my sign to let go of this life for good. Within two hours, they had not only approved me but connected me with the therapist who still supports me today. That moment taught me that asking for help isn't just important – it can be life-saving.

Becoming a parent has shifted my perspective even further. Watching my son, I've realized how fiercely I want him to feel safe asking for help, to never doubt his worthiness of support. It's made me confront an uncomfortable truth: why do I deny myself the very thing I so desperately want for him?

For those of us who've experienced dissociation, asking for help carries its own unique weight. The fear of appearing "crazy," of being deemed untrustworthy or dangerous, adds layers of complexity to an already challenging act. But each small step toward reaching out becomes its own glimmer of hope – from that seventh-grade history teacher who saw past my struggle, to the late-night Instagram message that saved my life. These moments of connection, however terrifying, shine light through the fog of dissociation and self-doubt.

I've learned something profound through my journey with my son's autism, particularly during his nonverbal phase. Help doesn't always come from where you expect it. Sometimes, the people you thought would be there aren't equipped to provide what you need, and that's okay. Sometimes, it's a stranger – perhaps someone who's walked a similar path – who recognizes that look of fear and uncertainty in your eyes because they've seen it in their own mirror.

Often, the people who become our strongest supports are those who've struggled themselves. They're the ones awake at 3 AM who can point you toward that free service that might just save your life. They're the ones who know exactly what words to say at your darkest moment because they've lived through their own darkness. They're the ones who understand that sometimes, survival hinges on a single act of kindness, a single moment of being seen.

What I'm learning, slowly but surely, is that asking for help isn't about having the perfect support system already in place. Sometimes it means stretching beyond your comfortable circle, reaching out into the unknown, trusting those small glimmers of hope you find in unexpected places. It might mean joining an online support group late at night, messaging a stranger who posted about similar struggles, or accepting help from someone who doesn't look like what you imagined help would look like.

It's not always about finding the "right" people – it's about being brave enough to keep reaching out until you find your people. They might not all be in your immediate circle. They might be scattered across different parts of your life, each offering different kinds of support. And that's okay. What matters is recognizing these moments of connection when they appear and having the courage to lean into them, even when it feels scary or uncertain.

Each time we reach out, we create a small glimmer of hope – not just for ourselves, but for others who might be sitting in their own darkness, wondering if they too can take that brave first step. We're all works in progress, learning to reach out, one trembling hand at a time. And sometimes, those hands find unexpected warmth, unexpected strength, unexpected connection in the most surprising places. These moments have the power to transform us, to lift us out of the fog, to remind us that we're not alone on this journey.

But what happens when words themselves become the barrier? When the very language of asking for help feels out of reach? Next time, we'll explore the complicated dance of communicating needs when words fail us - whether through neurodivergence, trauma, or the fog of dissociation. There's more than one way to ask for help, and sometimes the strongest messages don't use words at all.

Until next time,

P.S. - Don’t know about TWLOHA? To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide. Interested in their scholarship opportunities? Visit their Scholarships page.

*Glimmer Nest is a safe space where we respect each other's privacy and experiences. While I'll be sharing my personal journey, please remember that this isn't professional medical advice. Always consult with your healthcare provider for medical concerns.

Hope to see you in the Glimmer Nest chat on Substack!