Let Someone Love You

There’s a type of strength I used to idolize, one that looked like handling everything on your own. The kind of strength that wears a brave face, that jokes when things are falling apart, that solves problems quietly and never asks for help. I thought that was adulthood. I thought that was emotional maturity.

But I’ve come to see that strength is something else entirely.

Earlier this year, life forced me to stop. Not in some dramatic, cinematic kind of way, but in the slow erosion of joy, the quiet thickening of sadness, the creeping fatigue that no amount of sleep could cure. I had to say goodbye to a creative project that once felt like a lifeline. And in that void, something strange happened: I heard my own voice again.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t distracting myself with output. I wasn’t performing for anyone. I was just… with myself. And there was clarity in that silence. A kind of healing.

So I made a commitment: One month. No pushing, no productivity. Just being. Just listening.

I felt stronger. Calmer. Proud of myself for doing the hard thing, facing everything I had shoved into the closet of “I’ll deal with it later.” I was learning to carry myself again.

But then I made a mistake.

I got used to being the only one holding it all together. And without realizing it, I started turning away from people. Not in an angry or dramatic way, but in that subtle, sad way that isolation sometimes starts, with the belief that no one could really help anyway.

My inner voice, once so loud in the stillness, started to go quiet again.

Just yesterday, I was driving back from a not-so-glamorous camping trip with my closest friends. Two people who know me too well to be fooled. I hadn’t said much the whole weekend. No jokes, no teasing. Just... muted. And then, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, I had to pull into a gas station because my cramps were unbearable.

I stepped out of the car and laid down on the concrete outside the convenience store. Not exactly the climax moment of a self-help memoir, but it felt symbolic. My body had been trying to speak to me for weeks, and now it was yelling: “Stop. Lay down. Listen, cowboy.”

My friends sat down beside me, gently, patiently, not demanding anything. Just being there. I had been stonewalling them emotionally all weekend and they knew it. But they stayed.

And then it all came out.

The depression. The anxiety. The pressure to keep showing up, to keep smiling, to keep producing, because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I told them how I’ve been sick constantly, catching every bug, pushing through every ache. How I thought maybe if I just kept going, it would all go away on its own. Push though.

They didn’t fix it. They didn’t try to. They just held me. And listened

Until someone else showed up...

A man walked over to us with a look of genuine concern. Piercings, metal band shirt, wife in a punk outfit, teenager in a skeleton onesie. An unlikely angelic trio.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I told him, too quickly, that it was just bad cramps, trying to downplay the obvious scene I was making: a pale, long-haired girl crying on the concrete outside a Kum & Go. But his wife wasn’t buying it. She asked if I needed anything. I reflexively said no, no. But she insisted.

Eventually, I said yes.

It wasn’t just the ibuprofen she handed me, it was what it symbolized. For the first time in a long time, I let someone take care of me. A stranger. And then, finally, I let my friends take care of me too who were there all along, just waiting to love me.

We cried together. We laughed at how absurd the whole scene looked. I felt human again.

I don’t have some clean, poetic resolution to offer you here. I’m still tired. I’m still working my way through it. The books I used to devour are gathering dust. My guitar, Vampira, sits smudged, untouched. My motorcycle hasn't been ridden on in months, the vehicle for my freedom and happiness that would shoot me through time and space. But I’m learning that my worth isn’t tied to how much I produce, or how well I hide my pain.

I’m learning to ask for help before the gas station breakdown. I’m learning that being strong doesn’t mean being alone.

So this is your gentle reminder:

Let someone love you.

Let someone hold space for your messiness, your silence, your sadness. You don’t have to be “on” all the time. You don’t have to wait until your body gives out. Let someone show up for you, even if they’re wearing a Korn tee and eyeliner at a rural gas station.

There are strangers with more kindness than we expect. There are friends waiting for us to say, "hej hej, yeah, I'm not okay, dude.”

Let them love you.

And if you don’t have those people yet, keep going. Or find someone who can help, professionally, tenderly, without judgment.

Because no one is supposed to do this alone.

P.S. September lineup comes out tomorrow.. and the film festival announcement >:) hehe hehe hehe