Be Vulnerable

Notes on learning to ask for help

Ten years ago, two friends staged an intervention. "I'm fine," I said automatically. They wouldn't accept it.

"You fix everyone's problems," one said. "But you never let anyone fix yours." The other nodded. "Real friendship can't be this one-sided."

They were right. Since childhood, I'd been the designated problem solver. High school drama? I mediated. College relationships? I counseled. Work conflicts? I resolved. No wonder I became a product manager—I'd been building bridges between people my entire life.

But fixing others became my way of hiding. The better I got at solving problems, the harder it became to share my own. The ultimate paradox: the very skill that made me successful was silently undermining every relationship I built.

The tech world rewards this pattern. We celebrate the leader who "has it all figured out," the manager who never shows doubt. Behind closed doors, every executive I know wrestles with existential fears. Yet we maintain the performance, each of us thinking we're the only one struggling.

Now, with two young kids, the weight feels heavier. Late-night product sessions competed with bedtime duty. Founder pitches clash with school pickups. Each morning brings the crushing pressure to excel in both worlds. When friends ask how I manage, my rehearsed response is ready: "It's all good." But behind that wall lies deeper truth: some days I wonder if I'm failing at both.

That decade-old conversation echoes differently now. Every time I deflect, I remember their faces—friends who cared enough to call my bluff. Vulnerability isn't something you master. It's a daily choice to let people see the mess behind the solutions.

I'm still learning how to ask for help. But at least I've stopped pretending I don't need it.