When I was an undergraduate student many years ago, a book entitled I’m Ok—You’re Ok by Thomas A. Harris, M.D., was very popular. The book’s subtitle is “A Practical Guide to Transactional Analysis,” and centers on a method for solving problems in life.

I listened to his song for days and days. It was a soothing, beautiful song. I eventually came to know it as a love song.

He came faithfully every day, sitting in the tree, singing his heart out to his love and mate. She was protecting and warming their love children, yet to be born, in the nest they had built together. I was in awe of their equal partnership.

You know how you had life planned out...what you wanted and expected? Then, despite all the planning and dreaming, it didn’t turn out exactly how you thought it would. Looking back over my life, expectations, and hopes for the future, many things are different than I thought. And almost without exception, even when I couldn't see the road ahead, much turned out better than I could have envisioned.

I always liked asking participants in the support groups I led, “What is your favorite season of the year?” or “What was your favorite age?” You learn a lot about people with those questions. Most everyone had a preferred season, and some had a preferred age, stating, for example, they “loved being in their 30’s, when the kids were little.” Others said they enjoyed all the seasons and liked their current age.

She told me the story of her grandson’s death. He was five and the favorite of her four grandchildren. It was a tragic accident – too horrifying to recount the details here. She shared those details in my Beginning Again grief group a year after his death. Even though it was many years ago, I’ll never forget her story. And I will never forget her response to his death.

Looking back, I suspect I lived a good portion of my life in chronic fear… fear of not being good enough, fear of failure, fear of disappointing someone, fear of others’ opinions, fear of financial dependency or ruin, fear of being homeless, fear of deep water, and those are the fears that immediately come to mind.

He was walking down the street, oblivious to his surroundings, absorbed in the video on his iPhone. There was no awareness of the uncovered manhole ahead, until he found himself tumbling into semi-darkness, 10-feet underground. Stunned, but coming to his senses, he yelled for someone to come to his aid, to help him out of the deep hole. He heard a voice above him – the voice of a priest. Thank God, he thought. The priest offered a prayer on his behalf, and walked on.

Water has always frightened me, probably because I grew up in land-locked Oklahoma with few opportunities to become comfortable swimming or water skiing. In the water, I felt out of my element and scared. It was okay to be “around water” …playing in the lawn sprinkler or splashing in a shallow pool, but being “in the water,” in the deep end of a pool or in a lake or ocean, well, that was a panic attack waiting to happen.

I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve listened to another’s story of distress, fear, or grief. Each one shared with me that when talking to someone about what they were going through, the typical response went something like this: “Well, let me tell you about…my cancer diagnosis, my cousin’s cancer diagnosis, my ex, my dysfunctional boss, my struggle with depression, my loss, etc., etc…”

This quote has been our immediate family mantra for at least the past 25 years. There are similar versions of this quote, but I was told this particular quote was from the Lakota Sioux. It’s a simple saying that’s concise, clear, and at first glance – easy. But this is one of the most powerful and difficult maxims I’ve come across.

I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve listened to another’s story of distress, fear, or grief. Each one shared with me that when talking to someone about what they were going through, the typical response went something like this: “Well, let me tell you about…my cancer diagnosis, my cousin’s cancer diagnosis, my ex, my dysfunctional boss, my struggle with depression, my loss, etc., etc.” While I believe friends have good intentions and are trying to be supportive and helpful, the end result is usually the opposite. The person initially sharing her experience consequently doesn’t feel supported or heard and often feels discounted, typically, by a one-upmanship response. (Your experience is obviously worse than mine, so mine doesn’t count.)

Why is it so hard to ask for what you need? Maybe saying “I need…” feels selfish. The traditional roles of women as nurturers and caregivers have programmed us to consider everyone else’s needs ahead of our own, so needs often go unspoken and unaddressed. That’s not unique to either gender though, as men may have unexpressed needs as well.