One of the biggest misconceptions I've ever believed was that asking for help should come naturally.

I thought people either did it well or they didn't. I assumed the people who reached out when they were struggling were simply wired differently than I was. Stronger, maybe. More open. More comfortable being vulnerable.

Actually, I think asking for help is a skill.

People talk about “rock bottom” like it’s a specific address.

Like if you follow someone’s story long enough, you’ll eventually arrive at the same place. A dramatic collapse. A moment where everything falls apart so completely that change becomes the only option left. It’s the version of the story we see in movies and headlines. The job lost. The relationships shattered. The public unraveling that makes the turning point obvious to everyone watching.

But actually, rock bottom isn’t a place. It’s a moment.

For a long time, I thought fun and substances were basically the same thing. Not exactly—but close enough that I didn’t question it.

Celebrations meant using. Stress meant using. Boredom meant using. Even happiness somehow circled back to it. I told myself I was having fun. And sometimes, even in the moment, it felt that way. But the part I didn’t talk about—the part that mattered more—was what came the next morning