And partly, the worst thing you could do in my family was need

The words of Alison Bechdel ring like the toll of a solemn bell: “And partly, the worst thing you could do in my family was need something from someone. So physical strength represented an avenue of self-sufficiency to me.” These words are carved from the stone of hardship, born of a house where need was weakness and dependence was shame. It is a confession and a revelation both, telling us of the burden carried when love is measured not by giving but by enduring. In them, there is pain, yet also a truth that shines like a flame—when one is denied comfort from others, the body becomes its own sanctuary, and strength becomes both shield and refuge.

In ancient lands, the elders taught that a warrior who depends on another for every blow shall not survive the battlefield. So too, in the realm of the spirit, one who is never allowed to lean upon another learns instead to make a fortress of their own body and will. Bechdel’s words reveal this secret inheritance: when the hearth gives no warmth, one learns to build fire within. And thus physical strength, the lifting of burdens, the hardening of the muscles, becomes a sacred path toward freedom. It is not merely the flesh that is trained, but the soul itself that declares, “I shall not be broken by the absence of help.”

Consider the tale of Frederick Douglass, born into bondage, where to need was to be enslaved, and to ask was to be denied. He discovered, as a young man, that learning to wrestle and fight back gave him not just the power of muscle but the strength of identity. One day, when he resisted the blows of a slave master and refused to submit, he later said that it was the moment his spirit became truly free, though his body was not yet released. For him, as for Bechdel, strength was not only survival—it was dignity carved from suffering.

And yet, let us be wise: the teaching here is not that we must reject the bonds of others forever. No, for even the strongest oak thrives because it stands in a forest, its roots tangled with its kin. But when the soil of the family denies nourishment, the sapling must reach further, must grow stronger, must teach itself to endure winds without leaning. In such a life, self-sufficiency is not pride alone—it is survival, and it is the birth of an unyielding spirit.

But there is sorrow too, for to live without asking, to fear the simple act of needing, is to carry a wound unseen. The lesson is not that we must banish dependence altogether, but that when others fail us, we must find strength until we can seek better bonds. True liberation is not the absence of need, but the freedom to choose when and how we share it. To be able to say, “I stand strong,” and also, “I accept your hand,” is the highest balance of all.

So what then shall we learn? First, to honor the power of strength—to build the body, the mind, and the will, for these are shields when kindness is withheld. Second, to recognize when strength becomes a prison, keeping us from asking for the gentle help we deserve. To the youth who listen: train your hands to lift, your voice to speak, and your heart to endure, but do not turn away from fellowship when it is offered in love.

Practical action lies before you. Take up a practice that teaches discipline and resilience—whether the lifting of iron, the shaping of breath in meditation, or the sharpening of craft in study. In these, you will find the roots of self-sufficiency. But also, when the time comes, do not fear to ask, “Brother, sister, friend—walk with me.” For the strongest among us are not those who need nothing, but those who have learned when to stand alone, and when to stand together.

Thus, let Bechdel’s words be a torch passed down: when life withholds comfort, create your own fortress; when silence denies love, let strength be your answer. But once your spirit is secure, do not remain walled forever—open the gate, and share both strength and need with others. In this balance lies the true art of living.