WHAT IS HYPER INDEPENDENCE?

One of the things I’ve noticed both in my own life and in my work as a therapist is how difficult many LGBTQ+ people find it to ask for help. On the surface, this can look like confidence, resilience, or self sufficiency. We become the people who cope, the people who sort things out ourselves, and the people who tell everyone else we’re fine whilst privately carrying far more than anyone realises. From the outside, this can look like strength. It can even be rewarded by others. Yet underneath that competence there is often something much more complicated going on.

Sometimes this is described as hyper independence. Hyper independence isn’t simply enjoying your own company or being capable of looking after yourself. It’s the belief that you have to manage everything yourself because relying on other people feels uncomfortable, unsafe, or risky. Being independent isn’t the same thing as feeling safe enough to depend on other people. Looking back on my own life, I can see how difficult I often found it to ask for help. I became very good at appearing capable, coping with difficulties, and supporting other people. Yet there were periods of my life when I was struggling deeply and still found it easier to tell myself I could handle it alone. At the time, I thought this was strength. Looking back now, I know it was something else, it was an adaptation to the environment I grew up in.

THE FEAR OF ASKING FOR HELP

I don’t think the difficulty is usually about help itself. It’s about what asking for help means. What if they say no? What if they think I’m needy? What if I’m asking too much? What if they help me but secretly resent me for it? What if I’m putting them out? For many people these fears aren’t conscious thoughts that they sit and analyse. They show up as hesitation, a reluctance to send the message, a tendency to say “I’m fine” when they’re clearly not, or a knot in the stomach when they’re considering reaching out.

Underneath those fears is often shame. Many LGBTQ+ people grow up believing that their needs matter less than everybody else’s. We become skilled at accommodating other people, managing other people’s feelings, and minimising our own struggles. Asking for help requires us to do the opposite. It requires us to believe that our needs matter and that we deserve support. If you’ve spent years carrying shame, that can feel surprisingly uncomfortable.

Asking for help also requires vulnerability.

It means allowing somebody else to see that we’re struggling. It means admitting that we don’t have all the answers. It means revealing that we don’t have everything under control. For people who have spent years trying to appear strong, competent, and self sufficient, that can feel incredibly exposing. Sometimes it feels safer to struggle alone than to risk somebody seeing us at our most vulnerable.

WHEN BEING QUEER TEACHES YOU TO GO IT ALONE

I think there is something unique about the experience of growing up LGBTQ+. Many of us spent years carrying a secret. We learned very early that there were things we couldn’t safely say out loud. We monitored ourselves, edited ourselves, and carefully managed what other people knew about us. We became experts at handling difficult emotions privately.

Growing up gay in the 1970s and 1980s, I spent years carrying a secret that I felt I couldn’t share with anyone. I didn’t have the language to understand what I was feeling, and I certainly didn’t feel safe talking about it. Between Section 28, bullying, and the wider attitudes towards LGBTQ+ people at the time, there was a constant sense that this part of me needed to remain hidden.

The result was that I learned to deal with it all alone. When you’re carrying something so significant in isolation, you don’t really have another option. You can’t ask for advice. You can’t seek reassurance. You can’t tell people what you’re struggling with. You simply get up each day and try to manage it as best you can. Looking back now, I think this is where much of my self reliance developed. It wasn’t a conscious decision. It was an adaptation. If nobody could know what I was carrying, then I had to learn how to carry it myself.

What begins as protecting one secret can slowly become a way of relating to the entire world.

Over time, self reliance stops being something you do and starts becoming part of who you are. You learn to process emotions alone. You learn to solve problems alone. You learn not to expect support because support wasn’t available for the thing that mattered most. Even after I came out, entered recovery, and trained as a therapist, there were still times when asking for help felt deeply uncomfortable. Not because help wasn’t available, but because I had never really learned how to receive it. For years, my default response to struggle had been self reliance. It was familiar. It felt safer than vulnerability.

TRUST, VULNERABILITY AND CONNECTION

The more I’ve reflected on this, the more I think hyper independence isn’t really about independence at all. It’s about trust.

Trust and vulnerability are deeply connected. If we trust somebody, we can be vulnerable with them. We can tell them when we’re struggling. We can ask for help. We can admit we’re frightened, overwhelmed, confused, or hurting. If trust is absent, vulnerability becomes incredibly difficult. And if vulnerability feels unsafe, asking for help can feel almost impossible.

Growing up carrying a secret I couldn’t safely share, trust became complicated. The thing I needed help with most was the thing I felt unable to talk about. I couldn’t ask questions. I couldn’t seek reassurance. I couldn’t tell people what I was feeling. For years, I simply carried it by myself. Looking back, I think that experience taught me something profound about the world. It taught me that when things became difficult, I was largely on my own.

Nobody explicitly taught me that lesson.

The secrecy taught me. The isolation taught me. The bullying taught me. The fear taught me.

Eventually, self reliance stopped being something I did and became part of who I was.

For some LGBTQ+ people there is another layer as well. If you’ve experienced bullying, rejection, betrayal, or conditional acceptance, vulnerability may not simply feel uncomfortable. It may feel dangerous. You may have learned that people use information against you, that showing weakness invites criticism, or that revealing your needs creates opportunities for others to take advantage. Even when people are close to us, those fears can remain active.

Part of us wants support, connection, and to be truly seen. Yet another part remains on guard, scanning for signs that we will be disappointed, judged, abandoned, or exploited. This is the paradox many hyper independent people find themselves living with. They often long for connection whilst simultaneously protecting themselves from it. Connection requires vulnerability. Vulnerability requires trust. If trust feels risky, connection often feels risky too.

THE ROOT CELLAR AND ADAPTATION

Carl Rogers used the analogy of potatoes growing in a dark root cellar. Even in harsh conditions, the potatoes continue growing towards whatever light they can find. The growth may appear twisted or distorted, but it represents the plant’s best attempt to survive its environment. When I first encountered this analogy during my counselling training, it resonated deeply with me.

Looking back now, I don’t see my hyper independence as a flaw or a character defect. I see it as an adaptation to the conditions I grew up in. As a child carrying a secret I couldn’t share, feeling isolated, frightened, and alone, self reliance wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity. I couldn’t trust people with what I was carrying because it didn’t feel safe to do so. The only option available was to learn how to cope alone.

That adaptation helped me survive. It protected me. It got me through some very difficult years. The challenge is that adaptations don’t automatically disappear when the environment changes. As a child, hyper independence helped me cope with isolation. As an adult, it can sometimes get in the way of the very thing I need most: connection.

The adaptation that helped me survive as a child didn’t necessarily help me connect as an adult.

The same strategy that once protected me from disappointment can stop me reaching out for support. The same self reliance that helped me survive can make vulnerability feel uncomfortable. The same instinct to handle everything alone can leave me feeling disconnected from other people. Healing isn’t about criticising those adaptations. It’s about understanding them with compassion and recognising that they made sense at the time. The question isn’t whether they were helpful then. The question is whether they still help us create the life and relationships we want now.

HOW THERAPY CAN HELP

Therapy can help us understand where these patterns came from and what purpose they once served. Rather than asking, “What’s wrong with me?” we begin asking a different question: “What happened to me?” When we understand our adaptations, we can stop fighting them. We can begin to appreciate how they helped us survive whilst also recognising where they may now be limiting us.

Healing doesn’t mean becoming dependent on other people. It means developing enough trust to know that you don’t have to carry everything alone. It means learning that vulnerability and danger are not the same thing. It means discovering that there are people who can be trusted and that asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness. It means recognising that the child who learned to survive alone may no longer be as alone as they once were.

Whatever challenges you’re facing, there’s usually a reason they developed in the first place. The thoughts, feelings, and behaviours we struggle with today are often adaptations to experiences that once required us to survive, protect ourselves, or belong. Understanding those patterns with curiosity and compassion can be the first step towards lasting change,