What If No One Comes?

What’s on my mind?

Asking for help.

A few days ago, I was loading the first bin of my new compost system.

I had roughly 3,000 pounds of material spread across 105 five-gallon buckets. Coffee grounds. Mulched leaves. Mushroom blocks. Worm castings. Some needed to be mixed. Some soaked or washed.

And all of it needed to go over the top edge of the composter.

By hand.

I don't own a skid loader or a conveyor. At this point, the mechanical loading system for Iowa Worm Farm is me.

It was about 90 degrees outside with almost no wind.

For the first hour, I worked like I normally do.

Pick up a bucket. Dump it. Grab the next one.

Eventually my body started telling me it wasn't keeping up with what my brain was asking it to do.

I ignored it.

Then I got the chills.

That got my attention.

I turned on a fan, grabbed some water and sat down on a five-gallon bucket.

After a few minutes, I tried to stand up.

I couldn't.

And this is the part that seems ridiculous when I write it now.

I wasn't thinking about getting help or going home. I was looking at buckets everywhere, 20 gallons of mulched leaves soaking in water, and a giant mess I couldn't leave unfinished.

I had two more hours to work.

I needed my body to get with the program.

Eventually, I was able to stand.

So I made a compromise with myself.

I'd keep going.

Just slower.

By the end of the day, I'd loaded about 2,500 pounds.

And somehow, my primary emotion was disappointment.

I hadn't finished.

There was also pride.

I'd pushed through.

It wasn't until I climbed into my truck and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that I started to see the situation differently.

I was covered from head to toe in leaves, coffee grounds, worm castings and mushroom blocks. I'd sweat through everything I was wearing.

And my next thought was about my wife.

Shit.

There was no way I was getting cleaned up enough before Denise saw me.

She's my protector. Sometimes that means protecting me from myself.

And there's an old pattern in me that I'm still trying to let go of.

Hide it.

Don't let anyone know.

Don't get in trouble.

I'm aware of it now. That doesn't mean it's gone.

After I got home, hydrated and listened to my wife and kids explain why they were worried about me, I was left with a question:

What does it look like to ask for and accept help?

I'm not sure why that's so hard for me.

Part of me is apparently still a two-year-old.

I do it.

No. I DO IT.

I've seen this pattern before.

It took me years to let go of the things I personally controlled in my insurance office. Control felt responsible. Eventually I learned that my need to control everything wasn't helping the business grow.

I had to let other people help.

Iowa Worm Farm has put me right back at the beginning of that lesson.

People tell me they appreciate what I'm building. Some tell me they'd like to help.

I always thank them.

And then I keep carrying the buckets.

I've assumed they're mostly being polite.

But what if they're not?

What if they actually mean it?

That's where I discovered the question underneath the question.

What if I ask for help and no one comes?

I've spent more than 30 years in sales. You'd think there wouldn't be much call reluctance left in me.

Apparently there is.

Because this feels different.

Iowa Worm Farm means a lot to me.

If I ask someone to buy something and they say no, that's sales.

Asking someone to help me build something I care deeply about feels different.

What if I ask and hear nothing?

There's a part of me that knows exactly what I'll do.

I'll keep going.

I'll pick up the next bucket.

I've proven plenty of times that I can do that.

But there's another question that might scare me just as much.

What if somebody says yes?

Then what?

I'd have to let them in.

I'd have to give up some control.

I'd have to believe that someone might actually be willing to get dirty and sweaty and covered in coffee grounds simply because they want to be part of what I'm building.

And there's another uncomfortable layer.

Iowa Worm Farm isn't a charity.

It's a business.

It has to become profitable if it's going to survive, grow, pay people and prove that turning waste into something valuable can actually work.

Good feelings can't be put on a paycheck.

I don't have all of that figured out yet.

Maybe I don't need to.

Maybe accepting help doesn't mean admitting that I can't carry the bucket.

Maybe it's recognizing that I don't have to carry every bucket myself.

People keep offering.

I keep thanking them.

And then I keep carrying the buckets.

Maybe the next thing I need to learn isn't how to build a better compost system.

Maybe it's how to believe people when they offer.

How to say yes.

How to say, "I could use some help."

I'm not very good at that yet.

And I don't know what happens if I ask.

Maybe nobody comes.

Maybe somebody does.

Either way, I already know I can do it myself.

Maybe it's time to find out whether I have to.