I have been independent for as long as I can remember, but it wasn’t the kind of independence that felt freeing or adventurous—it was the kind that was forged out of necessity. As a child, I found myself in situations where I had to take on responsibilities far beyond my years. I was the one scheduling my own doctor and dental appointments, teaching myself the things I should have been taught, navigating worlds that no child should be expected to navigate alone. It wasn’t because I wanted to, but because the alternative was letting things fall apart. Somewhere deep inside, I understood that if I didn’t take care of myself, no one else would.

At first, it didn’t even feel extraordinary. It felt ordinary, like breathing. I carried responsibilities the way a child carries a backpack too heavy for their frame—straining under the weight but not realizing it isn’t supposed to feel that way. And over time, what began as survival calcified into identity. I became the reliable one, the self-sufficient one, the one who didn’t ask for anything. I learned early that needing people was risky, that asking for help left me vulnerable to disappointment, rejection, or resentment. So I trained myself not to need. I wore independence like armor and convinced myself it was strength.

But the truth is, my hyper-independence was never just about strength. It was about control. As a child, so much of my life felt like it was in other people’s hands—adults who made choices for me, about me, without considering me. I learned that things could change suddenly, that security could be taken away in an instant, that what felt safe could quickly become unstable. I had no control over the people who were supposed to protect me, no control over the chaos around me, no control over whether my needs would be met. So I clung to the little control I could find—managing myself. And as I grew older, that control became everything.

Now, as an adult, I can see how that need for control has tangled itself into my independence. Asking for help feels like handing someone else the wheel, and that terrifies me. It feels like putting myself back in the vulnerable position of waiting for someone to show up, of hoping they’ll follow through, of trusting that they won’t use my need against me. My instinct is always to grip tighter, to do it myself, to carry the full weight rather than risk losing control again. It’s not just about not wanting to be a burden; it’s about fearing the powerlessness that comes with surrendering any part of my load to someone else.

People often praise me for being capable, resilient, and strong—and in many ways I am. But they don’t see the undercurrent, the cost of carrying it all. They don’t see the exhaustion that comes from never letting go. They don’t see how lonely it is to never risk leaning on someone, to never risk saying “I can’t do this alone.” They don’t see that my strength was born from a childhood where I had no choice but to be strong, and that what saved me then often isolates me now.

But something has shifted in me since being in my new relationship. For the first time, I feel what it’s like to exist in a dynamic where support is natural, reciprocal, unquestioned. When my Papa died, I was unraveling under the weight of my grief. He had a podcast scheduled that day, something important, but without hesitation, without needing me to explain or justify, he canceled it. No sighs, no guilt, no making me feel like I had disrupted something. He simply sat with me in my grief, steady and present, holding space for me in a way that made me realize I didn’t have to carry it alone. It was one of the first times in my life I felt that kind of unquestioned care—that someone else could step in without me needing to beg or explain, and that my pain was reason enough for them to be there.

Moments like that are teaching me what unlearning actually looks like. It isn’t sudden or easy; it’s slow, rewiring old instincts one experience at a time. Every time he shows up for me without conditions, without judgment, a piece of me softens. Every time I let myself lean on him, I realize that trust doesn’t mean losing control—it means choosing to share it. That I can still be strong and still need. That vulnerability doesn’t equal danger anymore; sometimes it equals love.

Unlearning means noticing when my instinct is to retreat into silence and choosing instead to reach out. It means letting someone carry part of the weight and seeing that the world doesn’t collapse when I do. It means rewriting the old story in my head—the one that says I am safest when I do it all myself—and replacing it with one where safety looks like being held in moments of grief, of exhaustion, of joy, of ordinary life.

Hyper-independence saved me as a child, but I don’t need saving anymore. Now, what I need is to let myself be supported, to let myself be seen not just as strong, but as human. To trust that giving up a little control doesn’t leave me powerless, but instead makes space for love, partnership, and connection to flow in. And maybe the bravest thing I can do isn’t to keep standing alone, but to finally let myself lean.