The Cost of Being “Good”  

Last week, in the pouring rain, I witnessed something that shook me to my core. Through the darkness, a crowd gathered around a fallen motorcycle. As I approached, I saw her – an Asian woman, her leg pinned beneath her bike.

What struck me wasn’t just the accident, but what happened next. As people rushed to help, lifting the heavy motorbike off her leg and escorting her to the sidewalk, she immediately started apologizing. “Thank you. Sorry. I’m okay, I’m okay, I don’t need help,” she insisted, although she was limping and obviously shaken up.

I knew exactly why she said that, because I was once that girl.

I was the one who held her bladder during entire road trips, not wanting to ask friends to stop. The third-grader who swallowed back barf because interrupting the teacher seemed unthinkable.

The woman who learned to be invisible, to be “good,” to never be a burden.

When you grow up learning that being seen or heard might bring trouble, when your very existence feels like a weight on tired caregivers’ shoulders, you master the art of taking up as little space as possible.

You become an expert at being invisible, at being “good.” But this goodness comes at a devastating price – living as a fraud, carrying the crushing belief that if people knew how broken you really are, they would reject you.

This double life inevitably catches up. It manifests as depression, anxiety, or both – and is it any wonder these are the most diagnosed mental health issues worldwide?

How many of us are out there, like that motorcycle rider, like my younger self, holding everything in, apologizing for existing?

But here’s where my story changed. Someone came into my life who didn’t see me as a hassle. Someone who actually enjoyed caring for me, who showed me that receiving help wasn’t a burden – it was a gift.

My husband (Clark) of almost 27 years became my first lesson in what real love looks like: the freedom to be human, to need, to receive, to be comforted, and to be held.

Yes, it was uncomfortable at first. When you’ve spent your whole life being your own island, accepting help feels like learning a foreign language.

But these corrective experiences – whether through partners, friends, or therapists – are the bridge from survival to living, from shame to self-acceptance.

So here’s my challenge to you: Start small. The next time someone offers help, try saying yes instead of automatically declining.

And when you say yes, don’t feel guilty and think you owe them a favour in return.

When you need something, practice voicing it. Because the real inconvenience isn’t in asking for help – it’s in denying ourselves and others the beautiful, human experience of caring and being cared for.

The world needs your authentic self, not your perfect performance. Your vulnerability isn’t an inconvenience – it’s your gateway to genuine connection. And in a world that often feels so disconnected, isn’t that exactly what we all need?