The Ask That Changes Everything

Most people think they've asked for help before.

They'll tell you about asking for a deadline extension.

Or needing a hand moving furniture.

Or delegating a task at work.

That's not what I mean. That's not real help. That's logistics.

Asking for help—for real—means standing in the raw, aching place where you can't fix it yourself. It means risking being seen.

It means exposing the part of you that has always survived by pretending you're fine.

And almost none of us know how to do that. I certainly didn't.

A decade ago, I sat across from my therapist, half-joking, half-guarded, as she asked:

"Roberto, do you ever ask for help when you're facing difficulties?"

"Of course," I said. I shrugged it off easily. "I don't mind asking."

She smiled, gently. "Good," she said. "How would you ask your partner for help? Say it out loud now."

I shifted in my seat. Felt a flicker of irritation. What was the point of this?

Still, I played along.

"Isabel... I need your help..."

And that's as far as I got.

The words caught in my throat. My chest tightened. Tears welled up, unexpected, uncontrollable. I couldn't even finish the sentence.

It wasn't a clever therapy exercise. It was the collision of a lifetime spent carrying everything alone.

Until that moment, I didn't realize how hard I had been holding myself together.

I thought being independent, decisive, and tough was just who I was.

I didn't see that behind the certainty, the drive, and the confidence, I was carrying a silent exhaustion.

I was stubborn. Proud. Convinced I could figure it all out alone.

Tough and in charge... my ass.

I wasn't strong. I was surviving.

Since that day, I've paid closer attention. To myself. To the leaders I coach. To the people who look the strongest on the surface.

The executives, the entrepreneurs, the project managers, the challengers—the ones always driving forward, commanding attention, intimidating without even trying.

The brilliant minds.

The relentless achievers.

The ones everyone else leans on—and who never seem to falter.

They'll tell you they ask for help too. They delegate. They manage.

But ask them this:

"Have you ever asked for help... not for a task, but for yourself?"

Most go silent. Some try to answer and can't. And a few—often the ones who look the most put-together—break open right there.

Because admitting you need help for yourself feels like failure... when you've spent your whole life performing strength.

We’ve been sold a broken idea of masculinity—one that confuses silence with strength, and isolation with power.

And isn't that what we see all around us today?

A world that confuses force with real leadership. A culture that rewards the loudest voices, not the strongest hearts.

Here's what I've learned:

Carrying everything alone doesn't make you strong. It just makes you alone.

Real strength isn't about how much you can carry. It's about how much you're willing to lay down.

In moments of genuine difficulty, I've learned to reach out differently. Not with a request for solutions.

Not with a task to be completed.

But with simple truth: "I'm struggling, and I just need you to know."

The relief comes not from problems being solved, but from no longer facing them in isolation.

When you finally ask—not for a task, but for your own heart—you give yourself permission to be human again.

To be seen.

To be supported.

To belong.

And something remarkable happens in business relationships, too.

The leaders who dare to show appropriate vulnerability—who occasionally remove the armor of certainty—build teams with deeper trust and loyalty than those who never waver.

When you show your humanity in the boardroom, in your team meetings, in those moments of challenge—not by dumping or oversharing, but by being authentically present—you give others permission to do the same.

This isn't weakness. This is the foundation of a real connection.

You discover who your people truly are: those who step toward you rather than away, those who value your humanity, not just your productivity.

So I'll ask you now:

Have you ever truly asked for help?

Not for a task. Not for a favor. Not because you're supposed to.

But because your soul needed to be carried for a while?

If not— maybe it's time.

Maybe the next chapter of your life isn't built on holding it all together. Maybe it's built on letting go.

I know, because I lived it.

When I finally stopped fighting, when I asked for help—not for a task, but for my heart—

I found something I never thought I could have:

---  Peace.

Not because everything was perfect.

But because, in that surrender, I finally belonged to my own life.

Until next time 👋🏼

Love 💙 Roberto

P.S. If you paused while reading this, maybe that was your moment.

Maybe it's already time to ask.

I'd love to hear.

You don't have to carry it alone.

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