I've always been extremely individualistic. This isn't the same as being independent—far from it. For much of my life, I was caught in a painful contradiction: knowing intellectually that nobody could "save" me, yet unconsciously hoping someone might. Meanwhile, I had a tendency to make it difficult for genuine support to reach me.

This paradox created a particular kind of suffering. I felt alone with burdens I couldn't carry, yet struggled to authentically receive the help that was sometimes offered. Outside of therapy—which I'd started at 25—I had convinced myself I had to figure everything else out on my own, while simultaneously feeling resentful when support didn't materialize in the way I wanted it.

This cost me dearly. Years of unnecessary struggle. Physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion from carrying weights never meant for one person. Opportunities missed because I was reluctant to reach out, connect, or simply ask.

Years of therapeutic work slowly transformed me. I began to understand the difference between healthy independence and destructive isolation. That inner transformation eventually allowed me to take other risks, like hesitantly joining a business mastermind in midlife, which profoundly changed my career trajectory. It also influenced my decision to finally put down roots. After moving up and down the East Coast for my entire adult life, I chose to settle where many of my friends had landed, recognizing my need for community.

I still value my autonomy, but I no longer carry the crushing weight of believing everything depends solely on me. The therapeutic work didn't just help me understand myself better—it fundamentally changed how I relate to others and to the possibility of genuine support.

This transformation showed me something crucial: what I had experienced as isolation wasn't a choice I was making from power, but a prison I was trapped in—one built from the belief that no one could truly show up for me in the way I needed. And this same pattern shows up everywhere in our culture.

The Internal Dialogue of Isolation

In my work, people describe their experience with strikingly similar language: "No one's got my back. It's all up to me. If I don't do it, it won't get done. I can't get it all done, but I can do it better than anyone else, so I just have to push through."

This isn't drive or ambition talking. This is a nervous system trapped in chronic activation, convinced that survival depends on doing everything alone. The consequences show up in their bodies, their relationships, and their capacity for clear thinking.

We live in a culture that worships this myth. The self-made individual. The person who pulls themselves up by their bootstraps. But research confirms what many of us feel daily: this approach is destroying us. It costs us our well-being, our relationships, our capacity for joy, and the collective toll is staggering.

When Your Body Stays in Crisis Mode

Our culture misses the point entirely: our bodies weren't designed for this level of chronic isolation and self-reliance. Stephen Porges's research reveals that our autonomic systems evolved for co-regulation—the ability to borrow calm from each other when our own systems are overwhelmed.

Before your conscious mind understands what's happening, your body has already assessed the situation through what Porges calls neuroception, an unconscious surveillance system scanning for safety or threat. When you're constantly operating in isolation, convinced you must handle everything yourself, your internal alarm system never truly settles. It stays in protection mode, scanning for dangers you'll have to face alone.

Your body gets stuck in chronic fight-or-flight activation. This leads to exhaustion, inflammation, rigid thinking, and emotional volatility. Your mind becomes narrow. Your creativity suffers. Your capacity for clear decision-making diminishes just when you need it most. What feels like autonomy is actually your system slowly burning itself out.

Research shows that daily stressors impair our ability to mentally and emotionally reset, which reduces our well-being the following day. It's a vicious cycle: the more overwhelmed we become, the less capable we are of stepping back or seeking support.

The Difference Between Toxic and Nourishing Connection

The costs of going it alone become clearer when we understand that not all connection is created equal. Here in western North Carolina, I watch two very different types of relationships play out in nature. There's kudzu—an invasive vine that grows aggressively, overwhelming and choking the life out of the trees it attaches to. But there's also native Virginia Creeper, which grows in partnership with trees, each supporting the other's growth without harm.

This distinction shows me something essential: too many of us have learned that all connections are like kudzu—invasive, draining, dangerous. So, we cut ourselves off entirely, convinced that isolation equals safety. But what we actually need is to learn the difference between toxic dependence and healthy interdependence, between relationships that suffocate and those that nourish.

The people who come to me aren't failing in conventional terms. Most are highly successful in their fields, with impressive achievements, recognition, and financial rewards. But they're burning out because their demands exceed their internal resources. Mental exhaustion compounds when they refuse to delegate or seek help.

I watch them achieve external success while destroying their health and relationships in the process. Their families suffer. Their teams suffer. They make poor decisions from a place of depletion and struggle with emotional regulation under pressure.

This isn't just about work. It shows up everywhere in our disconnected culture. People across all areas of life—whether building businesses, raising families, or pursuing meaningful work—carry this same burden. They withdraw from the very people who could provide support, creating exactly the isolation they fear.

What Becomes Possible When We're Not Alone

Healthy interdependence doesn't diminish our autonomy. Instead, it creates what researchers call a foundation for collaboration. When we feel genuinely safe in connection with others, our bodies can focus on growth, restoration, and creativity. We gain access to higher brain functions that enhance learning and innovation, capacities that become unavailable when we're stuck in survival mode.

Social interaction functions as a biological regulator, optimizing our emotional and physical state. We're mammals. We evolved to derive biological benefit from relationships. Fighting this design doesn't make us more capable, it makes us sick.

The most effective people I know aren't the ones who never need help. They're the ones who've built robust networks of mutual support and learned to distinguish between healthy independence and destructive isolation. They understand that accepting help doesn't diminish their agency—it amplifies their capacity.

Taking the First Steps

You don't have to overhaul your entire approach overnight. Start by paying attention. Notice when you're carrying unnecessary weight alone. Pay attention to your body's signals when you're overwhelmed.

Ask yourself: what one area of your life could benefit from an outside perspective or collaboration? What fear keeps you from reaching out? Often, it's not the fear of being rejected, but the deeper fear of being seen as anything less than completely self-sufficient.

Practice regulating your system through connection. When you're stressed, instead of isolating, reach out to one trusted person. Notice how your body responds to genuine care.

The goal isn't to become dependent on others for your sense of self or security. It's to recognize that we're wired for relationship, and that isolation, while sometimes necessary, is meant to be temporary, not a permanent way of operating.

The Paradox of True Independence

Those who truly change the world don't do it alone. They build from a foundation of genuine collaboration and mutual support, allowing their nervous systems to settle enough for real innovation and growth to emerge.

Your independence is valuable, but it doesn't require you to carry everything alone. The most autonomous thing you can do might be recognizing when you need help and having the courage to reach for it.

I spent decades learning this slowly through therapeutic work. The shift didn't happen overnight, but it changed everything: my work, my relationships, my capacity to show up fully in the world. What I had thought was necessary self-reliance was actually limiting my potential. Learning to accept support opened up possibilities I hadn't imagined.

I had created isolation from old patterns for so long that it felt like the only safe option. I had forgotten there were other ways to be. Real freedom isn't the absence of connection; it's the ability to choose when and how to connect from a place of wholeness rather than desperation or fear.

You don't have to take as long as I did to discover this. Your greatest capacity might lie not in what you can carry alone, but in recognizing that some loads were never meant to be carried by one person. The willingness to share them, to invite others into your challenges, is where growth begins.