Brie Nicole Inked

Everyone faces their own battles, whether or not they choose to acknowledge them. Struggle is a constant companion—sometimes quietly simmering beneath the surface, other times exposed for all to witness and judge. Admitting our hardships is difficult; seeking help, perhaps even more so. Personally, I have hesitated to reach out, confiding only in a trusted few. For me, the reluctance is rooted in a desire to protect myself—not to give others the opportunity to hold my vulnerabilities over me or to remind me of favors granted. Too often, offers of help carry unspoken expectations, a weight that lingers despite reassurances of goodwill. I am left anticipating the inevitable moment when the cost of that help is revealed, for nothing ever truly seems without strings attached.

Lately, seeking help has grown even more challenging. Even when my close circle assures me that their support comes with no conditions, I find it difficult to accept—hard to trust that it won’t be held against me one day. After all, that’s what experience has taught me: kindness is rarely without strings, and my quiet sacrifices have often gone unnoticed. I’ve consistently put others before myself, and now I find myself at the bottom of what feels like an endless void, struggling to rise but unable to see the way out. The promises that once filled the air—offers of unwavering support—have faded with time. When I established boundaries or no longer fit someone else’s story, I was left alone to piece together my next steps. So, when someone new insists their intentions are sincere and they simply wish to help, I can’t help but doubt. Belief doesn’t come easily anymore.

The truth is, I find it easier to face these challenges alone, rather than to reach out for help. The thought of being indebted to someone, or having my vulnerability used against me, unsettles me deeply. At this point in my life, my resources—my time, energy, and even kindness—feel finite, and I can no longer give them away unreservedly to those who only take. Whether or not the specifics of my hardship are laid bare, the people who once promised steadfast support have quietly disappeared. Their absence, their silence, makes me hesitant to seek assistance even when I need it most.

Still, I strive to trust, though I wonder if this hopefulness is also my undoing. I still persist in searching for goodness in others, holding to optimism in spite of past disappointments. I do not wish to be the reason hope fades for anyone. Yet learning to set boundaries and admitting that I am struggling remain difficult tasks. Pride and ego certainly play a role, but more than anything, it is shame and guilt—for letting circumstances deteriorate so much and for the blunt realities that ensue. The family I believed I had is no longer there, and accepting genuine help from those who ask for nothing in return feels almost impossible after so many betrayals. In the end, solitude in my struggle is a path I know well; trusting again demands a courage I am still searching for.