Somewhere along the way, we collectively decided that needing support was a personal flaw.
Whoever started it definitely wasn’t struggling to keep up themselves.
We’re supposed to be independent. Self-sufficient. Motivated. Disciplined. Capable. Preferably while meal prepping, answering emails, remembering spirit week, drinking enough water, maintaining meaningful friendships, processing childhood trauma, exercising five days a week, folding the laundry before it becomes furniture, and somehow remembering to text people back.
It’s a strange game we’ve all agreed to play. And almost everyone I know thinks they’re losing.
We didn’t invent this pressure on our own
I don’t think most of us actually chose to believe that needing support is a flaw. I think we were handed that belief by systems that benefit from us believing it.
Productivity culture rewards the person who never asks for help — right up until they burn out, at which point they’re quietly replaced. The economy we live inside mostly assumes an unencumbered worker: no caregiving responsibilities, no chronic illness, no nervous system that needs recovery time, no community to show up for. The village that used to share the load — extended family down the street, neighbors who noticed when you were struggling, an economy that didn’t require two incomes just to stay afloat — has largely disappeared, and nothing built to replace it. What’s left is a culture that tells individuals to “level up” instead of asking why the baseline got so much harder to meet in the first place.
That’s not a personal failing. That’s a design problem. Most of the systems we’re trying to function inside were never built with a wide range of nervous systems, bodies, or life circumstances in mind — and they were especially not built with neurodivergent brains in mind. When the system itself doesn’t support living well, “just try harder” isn’t a solution. It’s a way of keeping the problem pointed at the individual instead of at the structure.
I’m not saying that to make anyone feel hopeless about their circumstances. I’m saying it because so much of the shame people carry about needing support disappears the moment they realize the bar was never actually reasonable to begin with. You’re not falling short of a fair standard. You’re doing your best inside a system that was never built to hold you.
Last week, we talked about understanding. About replacing shame with context. About asking a different question. Not, “What’s wrong with me?” But, “What would have to be true for this to make sense?”
Understanding matters. But understanding isn’t the finish line. Most of us already understand more than we know how to practice.
That’s where support comes in.
“I know exactly what I need to do...”
One of my favorite things people I’ve worked with say to me is, “I know exactly what I need to do.” There’s usually a long pause after that. Then comes, “I just... don’t do it.”
Like they’re waiting for me to confirm that this means they’re lazy. Or undisciplined. Or secretly broken.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
Most people don’t need another productivity podcast. Or another planner. Or another habit tracker. Or another morning routine that promises to change their life before 7:00 a.m. (Trust me. I’ve personally funded a small portion of the planner industry.)
The problem usually isn’t information. It’s support.
We confuse knowing with being able. One of the biggest myths we believe is that if we know better, we should naturally do better.
If that were true, none of us would stay up too late scrolling when we know we have to wake up early. No one would text their ex. No one would skip therapy homework. No one would eat chips over the sink while wondering why they don’t feel great.
Knowing isn’t the hard part. Bridging the gap between knowing and doing is. That’s the gap support was designed to fill.
Scaffolding isn’t failure
Imagine driving past a building under construction. Steel beams stretch into the sky. Scaffolding wraps around every floor. Workers move confidently from level to level.
Now imagine someone looking at that building and saying, “Wow... that’s pretty dependent.”
That would be ridiculous. The scaffolding isn’t evidence the building is weak. It’s part of how strong buildings are built.
Humans are the only creatures I know who expect themselves to function without scaffolding.
“I shouldn’t need reminders.” “I shouldn’t need medication.” “I shouldn’t need therapy.” “I shouldn’t need accountability.” “I shouldn’t need to write things down.” “I shouldn’t need help.”
Says who?
Support isn’t proof something is wrong. Support is often the reason something becomes possible.
We do this to neurodivergent people all the time
One of the cruelest myths we tell people with ADHD is that if they just cared enough, they’d remember. As if forgetting your wallet is a moral issue. As if time blindness is a personality flaw. As if buying seventeen planners was the real problem. (Although... maybe let’s take a brief break from buying planners.)
Someone with ADHD might know exactly what needs to be done, and still struggle to begin. Someone with autism might know a change in plans is manageable, and still feel completely overwhelmed by it. Someone with anxiety might know they’re safe, while every alarm bell in their body insists otherwise.
Understanding these realities doesn’t lower expectations. It changes the way we support people in meeting them.
Support isn’t always profound. Sometimes support is medication. Sometimes it’s therapy. Sometimes it’s body doubling. Sometimes it’s a visual timer. Sometimes it’s noise-canceling headphones. Sometimes it’s ordering groceries because executive functioning quietly resigned for the day.
Sometimes it’s your partner saying, “Hey... did you eat lunch?” Sometimes it’s the friend who loves you enough to say, “I think you’re spiraling.”
Support doesn’t have to be dramatic to be life-changing. Often, it’s surprisingly ordinary.
We have some very strange ideas about accommodations
We don’t call glasses cheating. We don’t tell someone with a broken leg they should just try walking harder. We don’t accuse someone of being weak because they use a wheelchair. We understand that tools help people function.
But suggest medication for ADHD, or a visual schedule, or wearing headphones in an overstimulating environment, and suddenly everyone becomes deeply concerned about resilience.
It’s fascinating. Somehow we’ve confused unnecessary struggle with strength. They’re not the same thing.
Maybe discipline isn’t what we think it is
I wonder sometimes how much of what we call discipline is actually well-designed support.
The person who never misses a workout might have a friend waiting for them every morning. The person who always pays bills on time might have every payment automated. The person who remembers birthdays probably has calendar reminders. The person who seems incredibly organized may have spent years building systems that work with their brain instead of fighting against it.
We tend to admire the outcome while completely overlooking the scaffolding.
Support isn’t removing responsibility
This part feels important. Support isn’t removing responsibility. It’s making responsibility possible. There’s a difference.
A calendar reminder doesn’t attend the meeting for you. Medication doesn’t write the paper. A therapist doesn’t heal your relationships. Your friend can’t regulate your nervous system for you.
Support doesn’t replace your effort. It helps your effort reach the finish line.
If you’ve been following the Change Cycle, this is the same idea in miniature — Support asks one simple question: what do I need? Everything in this essay is really just an answer to that.
Humans have always survived this way
I don’t think we’ve ever actually been meant to do life alone. Babies survive because someone responds when they cry. Children learn because someone teaches them. Communities recover because neighbors show up with casseroles and chainsaws after hurricanes.
We are shaped in relationship. Why would healing be any different?
Somewhere along the way, many of us started believing that independence was the goal. I don’t think it is. I think interdependence is. The ability to give support. The willingness to receive it. The wisdom to know the difference.
This is also, I think, why a healing community matters as much as any individual tool. Scaffolding is hard to build alone — most of us need other people around us who are building theirs too.
The work of support
One of the questions I’ve started asking myself isn’t, “How can I try harder?”
It’s, “What support is missing?”
Those are very different questions. Trying harder assumes the problem is me. Looking for support assumes the problem might be the system I’m trying to function inside.
Sometimes the answer is rest. Sometimes it’s boundaries. Sometimes it’s medication. Sometimes it’s community. Sometimes it’s asking for help before you’re completely overwhelmed.
None of those are shortcuts. They’re strategies.
Maybe support isn’t the thing you graduate from. Maybe it’s the thing you learn to build. For yourself. For your family. For your friends. For your community.
Maybe resilience was never about carrying everything alone. Maybe resilience is knowing when to carry, when to be carried, and eventually, when you’re strong enough to help carry someone else.
That feels a lot more human to me. Because the goal of SOLA has never been independence. It’s building lives, relationships, and communities where people can flourish together.
Next, we’ll explore the third foundation of SOLA: Connect. Because support helps us stay afloat. Connection reminds us why we’re swimming in the first place.