I Don’t Need Catastrophe to Accept Care

Learning to mother myself before I fall apart.

Hey friends,

FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER, I’ve been thinking about the part of me that Never Gets Tired™️—until she does. The production engine in my head that thrives on challenge, loves a checklist, and thinks rest is what you earn after everyone else has what they need. My inner Enneagram 3, basically.

Let me be fair: I do love her. She’s built an entire life for me. She’s the reason I can write books, host podcasts, tour the country, and still remember everyone’s birthdays. She’s capable and ambitious and wildly loyal to a to-do list. But sometimes…she needs supervision.

Here’s a thing I thought I’d mastered: accepting help.

If you’ve read Awake, you know I wrote an entire book about it—the way my people carried me when I was flat on the floor; the way they fed me, attended to me, and literally nurtured me while I rebuilt a life. In that brutal year, I learned how to receive help without apology.

Because therapy taught me to observe my feelings like a benevolent investigator instead of a triggered critic, I’ve noticed something funny lately (and by funny, I mean humbling). When life is good—when I’m on tour, the book is thriving, there’s a new baby to love and work to be proud of—help suddenly feels harder again.

When my friends or teammates see that I’m stretched thin and offer to jump in, my inner Enneagram 3 pipes up:

“Careful, Jen. If they’re offering help, it means you’re dropping balls. You’re not doing enough. They can see it.”

That voice sounds suspiciously like “competence,” but really it’s fear wearing a sensible blazer.