The Cost of Hyper-Independence

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Western culture loves a lone wolf. Think John Wick. Batman. Beyoncé holding it all together in heels and glitter. These aren’t literal examples of doing everything alone. After all, Beyoncé has a whole entourage, Batman has Robin, and John Wick—well, he had a dog. Briefly. But you get the point.

Here’s what we often miss: they’ve all become symbols of strength, self-reliance and being a free spirit. We admire them from afar and assume they’re self-made. We project a kind of independence onto them that looks like ultimate freedom. And in doing so, we start to believe that shining solo is the goal. That if we’re independent enough, admired enough, we'll be okay.

We equate independence with strength—as if needing no one is the highest form of resilience.

It’s easy to admire strength from the outside, especially when we mistake self-reliance for the kind of resilience we see in cultural icons. But not all strength is the same.

Healthy forms of strength is grounded, interdependent, and open.

Unhealthier forms of strength—though they may appear just as composed—can carry a subtle, exhausting tension underneath. Like always driving yourself to the airport because you don’t want to bother anyone. Or refusing to delegate a single task at work because no one does it 'quite right.' Or managing every crisis in your friend group while never mentioning your own. It looks like competence, but it often feels like quiet collapse.

That’s the thing about hyper-independence. It doesn’t arrive with a neon sign. It arrives dressed as capability.

In such cases, the superhero shrinks into a cartoon—more SpongeBob on a caffeine rush than Iron Man. Flapping around, overcommitted, yelling “I’m fine!” while everything’s clearly on fire.

One of the clearest signs of hyper-independence is when "I’m fine" becomes a default response, not because everything’s fine, but because you don’t know how to ask for help.

Hyper-independence is not a bold declaration of strength, but an emotional lockdown, where asking feels like exposure, and doing it all feels safer than risking being let down.

My boyfriend once said to me, "You’re so self-everything." I thought he was mixing up phrases—or maybe it was a new trend I hadn’t heard about (god forbid). But then he explained: I did everything myself. I never asked for support. I wore my independence like armor. And I indeed felt guilty or shy or weak when I had to ask someone for a favor. In fact, I'd rather pay someone to do something than get it as a favor—because favors felt like debt. They created a sense of obligation I wasn’t sure others would honor. It felt safer to stay in control than risk disappointment or vulnerability.

The weird thing is, back then, I thought I was being productive, efficient, capable, confident... and okay, maybe a little exhausted. But the kind of exhaustion that doesn't lift even after a full night's sleep, you know what I mean? That was my clue that self-sufficiency had tipped into something else.

Then I realized I lived five minutes from some of the most beautiful beaches and ancient forests in the country, and I couldn’t remember the last time I just sat in the sun.

Going back to my garden analogy from my last post, hyper-independence is the opposite of asking someone to water your garden. It's like spending all day tending every corner of your garden yourself—and maybe even the neighboring gardens. Watering. Weeding. Pruning. Perfecting. But you never get to enjoy the garden. You don’t sit under the tree you planted. You don’t even invite anyone over in case they trample something. You’re too busy making it flawless and the way you exactly want it. But you don't get to feel the breeze.

If asking someone to water your garden all the time is enmeshment, then hyper-independence is like hand-trimming every leaf, and never letting anyone near the fence, just in case they step on the grass. 

Add in some perfectionism, and it’s the perfect recipe for burnout. In the end, you might have a spectacular garden. But it’s empty. There’s no one to share it with. No space for rest. Just you, alone, covered in dirt, wondering why you feel so disconnected.

Here’s the paradox: disconnection doesn’t always look like loneliness. You might have people around. You might be loved, admired, surrounded even. But still, you stay busy. You keep moving. To avoid the ache, everything becomes a schedule—your free time, your holidays, your hobbies. Like there’s some invisible scoreboard you’re trying to catch up with, even when no one’s watching. 

You schedule everything except pause.

And still, that feeling lingers. The ache of doing everything right, yet feeling it's  not enough. That's usually when the deeper questions start to bubble up.

Why does being enough always feel like doing more? Why does solitude feel safer than closeness?

Maybe because intimacy means exposure. And when you've survived by holding it all together, letting people in can feel more dangerous?

For me, the answers started tracing back to childhood.

Being an only child without a father and with a mother who, despite wanting to give me the best of everything, became hyper-independent herself. So I picked up the same trait early on.

I learned that it felt safer not to need others—or at least to act like I didn't. In fact, needing others could feel risky. You don’t know if they’d show up. Or if they could hold what you handed them. And worse, if they rejected your request for help.

Before I could even begin to shift things, I had to see the cost. I had to sit with the exhaustion, the brittle pride of ‘having it all handled.’ I had to admit that the strength I’d been proud of was also isolating me.

So I started to experiment with my responses—not to reinvent myself, but to recalibrate. Something that allowed more breath, more connection. Here's what balance started to look like for me:

1. I need help with something. → Let me ask. Not because I can’t do it alone, but because I don’t have to do it alone.
2. I’m overwhelmed. → Instead of isolating, I’ll share it. Maybe I’ll still handle it alone, but at least someone will know about it.
3. I want company. → I’ll reach out. Not for rescue, just for connection.

My goal wasn’t to flip to the other extreme. It was to soften. To practice asking, sharing, and reaching out. To trust that I could be strong and still have needs. That independence didn’t have to mean isolation.

My intention is to water my own garden but also to let it grow wild enough to make room for rest, pleasure, and shared moments. It meant stepping away from doing it all and toward doing it together.

If you’ve ever felt proud and burned out at the same time, maybe it’s time to loosen the reins.

You don’t have to water it alone—not because you can't, but because letting others in is part of what makes the garden worth tending. Just imagine, what would it look like to share your garden?