I am good at vulnerability.

I am terrible at asking for help.

And it took a room full of 14- and 15-year-old boys to help me understand the difference.

I was invited to speak to a local Young Men’s Service League about what it means to take care of yourself—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Rather than tell them what I thought they should do, we built the answer together.

Eventually, we got to asking for help.

I told them one of my go-to stories: I flunked out of college my first year because I refused to acknowledge that I was in way over my head. Hard work and perseverance got me back on track, but 30 years later, I still think about the mistake I made by not asking for help sooner.

Then I gave them scenarios.

You failed a math test. What do you do? Who do you go to? What do you say?

Their answers: teacher, tutor, parents.

Good.

Then:

You’re at practice. Something hurts—and not practice is hard hurt. Something feels wrong. Your coach tells you to keep going.

What do you do?

Their answer wasn’t tell the coach.

It was, essentially:

You don’t say anything. Because the coach will think you’re weak.

I hadn’t planned to spend much time there.

But suddenly, I did.

“Asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s strength.”

I said it once.

Then I said it again.

Because in that moment, it felt like one of the most important things I could leave them with.

And somewhere in that conversation, I landed on the adult version of the lesson:

Self-advocacy requires being willing to risk how someone else might perceive you in order to take responsibility for what you know to be true.

Afterward, a mom came up to thank me.

“Thank you for being vulnerable with them,” she said. “I learned a lot. And I know how hard it is to be vulnerable.”

I thanked her.

But I’ve been thinking about what she said ever since.

Because the funny thing is, vulnerability isn’t particularly hard for me.

Asking for help is.

And until she said that, I’m not sure I’d ever really separated the two.

I’ve had a lot of practice saying the thing.

Saying I don’t know.

Saying I need help.

Saying this hurts.

Saying I’m scared.

Saying this isn’t working.

But knowing how to say those things isn’t the same as being willing to say them when saying them might change how someone sees you.

I keep thinking about those boys.

What happens when a 14-year-old learns that saying this hurts makes him weak?

What does he learn not to say at 24?

At 34?

At 44?

On Sunday, I told a room full of ninth-grade boys twice:

Asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s strength.

Turns out I may not have been talking only to them.