Helping You to Help Me: A Love Letter to My Village

Yes, I'm grateful. Yes, I love you. AND I need REAL support right now.

Sometimes, I feel like a relationship alchemist.

My personal relationships are an amalgamation of many things. Like little bits and pieces of each of my people coming together to create a kind of soulmate collective. I’ve never believed one person should be everything to me. Instead, I’ve built my own love story out of many hearts, hands, and souls. Together, with them, I know I am fully loved. I am fully supported. I am fully cherished.

This is a love letter to my village.

The people who show up. Who check in. Who make me laugh when I want to cry, and hold space when I don’t have the words. Who see me not just as a (super) mom, a (know-it-all) teacher, a (get-it-done) daughter, a (trophy) wife—but as me.

There’s the grandparent village—the wisdom-keepers who remind me of unconditional love and that this season is fleeting.

There’s the mommy village—the ones I text in the middle of the night about teething, tantrums, preschool politics, and the quiet ache of trying to be everything to everyone.

There’s the outside village—the friends who aren’t in the trenches of motherhood, but still show up with joy and presence. Who remind me who I am outside of my titles. Who send voice notes, pop by with coffee, or say, “You need a break. We outside!”

And then, of course, there’s family—both chosen and blood. The ones who know the stories behind the stories. The ones who’ve watched me evolve and stayed close through every version.

I love them. I thank God for them. And still—here’s the both/and:

In this season of life, I need more than love.

I need help. Real, tangible, competent help. Not the kind where I have to explain ten steps or recover from the support that was meant to make things easier. Not the kind where I say “Don’t worry about it” and then carry it all anyway.

I need help that actually feels like relief.
I need help that doesn’t add to my to-do list.
I need people who ask, “What time should I be there?” instead of “Let me know if you need anything.”

Recently, I had a friend called me out—in love, but with truth. She brought up something Sarah and I said on the podcast, about how we don’t like people calling us after 8 p.m. And honestly, I needed that reminder.

Because sometimes, the cost of love is inconvenience.

And I understand that in order to have a village, we have to be a village for others.

It stung a little, mostly because I know it’s true. Parenting young children can make you feel so self-centered. It kind of forces you inward. And that’s been really hard for me. I’ve never been that way in my life. I pride myself on being generous, available, thoughtful. But now, I feel tapped. Literally all of the time. Like I’m rationing myself out. And even though it’s circumstantial and temporary, it’s still painful.

Here lies the dichotomy:
I want to be the friend who picks up the phone, the daughter who lingers longer, the sister who shows up first. But in order to be the best version of myself for me, and for my daughter… I’ve had to embrace the truth that this season requires limits. It demands intentionality. And sometimes, that feels like a really hard pill to swallow.

It has directly impacted my postpartum anxiety and depression. That feeling of being torn between who I’ve always been and who I need to be now. The guilt of slowing down when everyone else still sees you as the “go-to.” The fear that people will think you’ve changed when you’re just trying to survive.

But slowly, I’m learning that asking for effective support doesn’t make me ungrateful. It just means I’m human. Because as much as I’m soft and grateful and sentimental—I’m also tired. Stretched. Managing too many tabs open in my brain and in my life!

And lately, I’ve been asking myself:

Is it really so bad to help someone help me?

What if asking clearly is an act of intimacy, not inconvenience?
What if my village actually wants to show up—but they just need better instructions?

One of the best lessons I’ve received (possibly ever) came during a recent episode of my podcast Doing It All where we sat down with my girl Tamisha Ponder. She shared a tool so simple and brilliant it stopped us in our tracks: she uses an away message on her phone.

Not just a generic “I’ll get back to you,” that she throws on to take a shower but a real-time, personalized message that tells people what she’s currently navigating, when she will be available, how she can be supported at the moment. It takes all the guesswork out. Some may call it “Type A,” but I call it genius. It’s clear, it’s kind, and it honors both her needs and the needs of her village.

So I’m taking notes.
I’m going to help people help me—without guilt, without perfectionism. From this point on, I’m going to be working on saying what I need without backpedaling, letting people in before the overstimulation and unraveling, and unfucking my mind. Reminding myself that recieving isn’t weak, it’s wise.

Because I’ve finally accepted that though my capacity has changed, my heart hasn’t. And maybe the people who love me can hold both.

So if you’re part of my village, please know this:

I see you. I appreciate you. I need you. I LOVE you!
And I’m learning that I don’t have to hold it all by myself.

With love (and an updated away message),

May

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