“What’s ‘lor-aze-pum’?” my daughter asked as I was pulling away from the pharmacy drive-up window. I paused for a moment, caught between my usual instinct to be transparent and the sudden weight of deciding how much to share with my kids. Up until now, I had always been open with them. I believe children deserve to know what happens behind the scenes in real life—not everything is as neat or simple as it appears on the outside. I want them to grow up understanding that their experiences are human experiences, not some kind of unusual anomaly.
Most of the time, if they ask me something, I answer. Why hide things? Secrets about our bodies or our lives shouldn’t feel taboo. I remember years ago, when my son was very little, screaming across the beach condo we were staying in with my dad, “Mooommyyy! Mommy! What is mommy pulling out of her butt?” He was tiny, yet I told him. Later, when he asked about periods, he made the connection himself. Life is reality, and reality deserves honest conversation.
So why was I hesitating now?
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I made the choice to be honest. I told my kids I needed a procedure to surgically remove a mole along with a large section of tissue from my neck. I admitted that I was scared. Really scared. I reminded them of how squeamish I’d become over the years—passing out at the sight of their nosebleeds, for example—and that I didn’t think I would handle this procedure well on my own.
“I asked my doctor for help,” I told them. “I told her I was really scared.”
It was that simple. I was 46, a grown woman, and scared. And I asked for help.
“There was a little awkwardness at first,” I explained, “but my doctor was really supportive. The medicine in this bag will help me not feel so scared when I go in for the procedure.”
And you know what happened? Honestly, nothing dramatic. Maybe something did happen, but it wasn’t bad. They understood. They absorbed the message. And then we moved on, chatting about something completely different—like whether souls can see other souls after death, or if we’ll talk and laugh with them, or if the next life will be an ‘Earth 2.0’ without our bodies.
Asking for help isn’t always easy. For some, extreme independence is a learned response, even a form of self-protection. But humans aren’t meant to navigate life in total isolation. We are wired to connect, to rely on each other, to help and be helped. Real connection, real interdependence, isn’t just about physical assistance—it’s about emotional support, trust, and shared vulnerability.
Asking for help doesn’t make anyone weak. In fact, it takes courage. It takes the bravery to be vulnerable, to let someone in. And from what I’ve seen, some of the strongest, most remarkable people are those who allow themselves to be vulnerable.
I know asking for help can feel uncomfortable. It can be awkward. That’s why it’s so important to me to model it for my children: that it’s okay to ask, okay to admit fear, and okay to accept support when it comes—even if it’s something as simple as a prescription bag with one pill inside. Because asking for help is not a weakness. It’s an act of courage, connection, and ultimately, love.
