Support, Not Help

I lost most of my mobility in March 2025. I lost a lot of my physical strength and stability starting in November 2024. I was isolated in my bedroom from February 2025, and as my body slowly became able to move a bit more, I was then isolated to the upstairs.

I asked for help.

I asked for support.

I asked for anyone to show up and just say hello.

The truth is, people offered help. Many even showed up a few times between February 2025 and when I returned home from the hospital, where I was admitted in March. But when I called people after coming home—knowing this was a long-term reality for me, that I wouldn’t be able to be on my feet without risking collapse—people stopped taking my calls and responding to my texts.

My asks were always limited. I kept repeating, over and over: please don’t take on more than you have capacity for. I care about your well-being just as much as mine.

Most of my asks were simple:

“Can someone call this office about this program?”

“Can someone please take my dog out?”

“Can someone just sit with me and play a game?”

I was alone.

Abandoned.

And when I asked for specific help, I somehow magically invited people into telling me what to do, what I was doing wrong, why I should move back to India, or why I should live in a nursing home.

And when I broke under the weight of carrying a life alone in this new lived reality, I was told I should get psychiatric help and be placed in a facility—which was interesting, because somehow my own psychiatrist didn’t think so.

Everyone had advice to give, even when I said I was at capacity and could not do anything, as I was recovering from being in a coma.

Slowly but surely, people heard “I have no capacity” as “I’m not capable.” I started hearing things like:

“No one can help you if you can’t help yourself.”

“Give away your agency so that we don’t have to see this.”

I remember explaining it like this:

“Imagine I’m carrying a million pounds. I’m not asking you to take the million pounds from me. I’m not even asking you to carry the million pounds with me. I’m asking you to take even half a pound—whatever is in your capacity—so that I don’t have to do it all alone.

Yes, I will still need help. But here’s the thing: I’d rather have you carry half a pound for ten days than ten pounds for one day. I don’t need one person to do everything. That leads to burnout, and I care about you just as much as I care about myself.”

When people see a person carrying a million pounds, I think most people think, “That looks like too much, and I don’t want to engage with that because it’ll tire me out,” regardless of what the person is actually asking for.

Instead, they say things like:

“Keep holding on.”

“Oh, that is slipping.”

“Have you considered not carrying so much?”

“You’re asking someone to lift so much with you.”

When I said, “Stand with me,”

they heard, “Bear my burden.”

I was left to carry it all with no money left—from medical expenses and from making all the modifications I needed to live in my home. I was ostracized by my own community.

Nick, my then ex-partner, stepped in. Little did we know that no one else was going to show up.

Public benefits kept denying me because I wasn’t a permanent resident and didn’t have an immigration status that fit into a tiny, magical category.

I had multiple doctor appointments every week. Nick carried me down the stairs, drove me to and from appointments, and pushed my wheelchair everywhere.

He became a caregiver—a role neither of us wanted him to take on.

I fought every system, every denial, everything that said I was too much, too different, or too complex to be eligible for support.

Nick burned out significantly—anyone would have.

I carried the guilt of watching someone I love burn themselves so that I could keep living.

The injustice is that Nick ended up holding harm to the point of breaking, and he broke so deeply that now we don’t talk anymore.

I got In-Home Supportive Services (IHSS) starting in October 2025. We had been waiting for months so that I could have a care provider who wasn’t Nick—someone who could lighten the load for both of us. But it arrived only after his departure.

I now have Erica, my care provider, who comes four days a week. She is the one who picks up food from donation centers and helps with the day-to-day support that keeps my life going while I still fight to build a life my body deserves.

I am not alone.

I have my body, my babies (Toffee, Milo, Nacho, and Cheese), and help that shows up sometimes.

I am grateful for what I have, and I know I need more.

Help is incredible. Support is sustainable.

Help starts outward; support starts inward.

Support stays.

I wish I had someone who stayed.