Here’s something I’ve learned the hard way: finding motherhood support is only half the battle. The other half? Letting that support actually support you.

And if you’re a maternal, nurturing kind of human like me, you know exactly what I mean.

Even with my EchoMom—a woman I hired, trained, and welcomed into my home with the clear intention of helping my family run more smoothly—I still find it hard to rest when she’s cooking or cleaning. I’ll literally hear her sweeping in the next room and feel like I should jump up and help… or at least offer her something. Anything. Because being still while someone else is moving feels, well, uncomfortable.

It’s not guilt exactly. Neither is it shame. I’ve learned to equate my value with what I do. A part that confuses rest for mothers with laziness. It whispers: you should be doing more.

And I hear that whisper even louder when I ask her to do something nuanced—like pick up my boys from the bus stop if I’m running late. Or prep and wrap a small care package for a friend I want to surprise in the city. These aren’t big asks. In fact, they’re often part of the job description. But they feel big to me. Personal. Intrusive. Vulnerable.

Still, I ask.

Not because it’s always easy. But because I’ve learned that the only way to grow through this discomfort is to go through it.

And every single time, you know what happens?

Nothing bad.

The house doesn’t catch on fire.

She doesn’t curse me out or storm off in offense.

She simply does the thing. Checks it off the list. 

And then? We all live to fight another day.

Letting someone support you shouldn’t feel radical. But for many of us navigating motherhood support, it is.

Think of those of us who have spent years being the backbone for everyone else: anticipating needs, holding it down, never asking for help unless it’s an emergency (and even then, reluctantly). Craving support is one thing; actually receiving it takes real courage.

Because support means vulnerability.

Support means surrender.

Support means trusting someone else to care about the outcome.

It’s hard because you’re used to caring the most.

I wish I could tell you that it gets super easy over time. But the truth? When you naturally nurture others and make things happen, you struggle to accept help. It’s a learned skill. One that gets easier, yes—but it rarely comes without emotion.

Because if you’re like me, thoughtfulness comes naturally. You care deeply and notice the small things. You worry about overstepping or seeming entitled even when you’re not. Even when you’re paying someone fairly. Even when they’re exceptional at what they do.

I’ve had to remind myself that asking for help at home doesn’t make me “too much.” It makes me human. Accepting support doesn’t mean I’m dropping the ball. It means I’m letting someone else carry it with me.

There’s a huge difference between outsourcing your worth and allowing yourself to be poured into. I’m not handing my value over to someone else—I’m just giving myself permission to exhale.

And let me be honest: I’m not one of those people who scrambles to clean the house before the house cleaner comes (bless those who do—I see you). I’m just not. I’d rather be embarrassed than do the extra work. But I am the person who wrestles with a quiet hesitation when I ask for help that feels “extra.” Not because it is extra, but because I know how it feels to be stretched thin. And I never want to be the one doing the stretching.

Compassion like that doesn’t vanish simply because someone is in a supportive role. It lingers in your body, in the breath you take before asking, in the overthinking before sending a text, in the double-checking before you speak.

But here’s the beautiful part:

You can feel all that and still ask.

You’re allowed to receive while carrying your kindness.

You can be thoughtful… and also be cared for.

Because letting someone support you doesn’t diminish your strength. It deepens it. It makes room for more of you to rise.

And EchoMom has taught me that. She showed me how steady, kind, and shame-free motherhood support can be. How small, daily acts of care remind you that you don’t have to hold everything alone.

She’s a part of my rhythm now, not just because of what she does, but because of how she shows up. Quietly. Consistently. Lovingly.

To any mother, nurturer, giver, or get-it-done-no-matter-what kind of person reading this:

I see you. I understand how hard it is. What it costs to hold so much.

But let this be your reminder:

You were meant to be supported instead of doing it all alone.

Softness is not a liability.

Rest is not a reward, it’s your right.

Your needs are not burdens. They’re beautiful, sacred truths.

So yes, absolutely, 100 percent: find support.

But also? Let them support you.

And when the feelings rise, and they will, breathe through them. Let them come. Let them go.

And keep showing up for the version of you who finally gets to exhale.

You’re worthy of a life where the load is lighter.

Let it be.