The other day, I stopped to help a young man on the side of the road. His car was pulled over, hazard lights flashing, and I could see him wrestling with the jack and a tire that clearly wasn’t going anywhere.

It’s a scene I’ve been in myself more times than I’d like to admit. A flat tire. No one around. That sinking feeling of realizing you’re not as prepared as you thought you were.

When I pulled over, he looked up at me, startled. I could see a mix of relief and embarrassment on his face. He was a solid-looking guy, muscular and athletic—like he probably spent a good amount of time in the gym. There was something familiar about him, though. Not in a way that said I’d met him before, but in the way he carried himself—like he was trying to look bigger than he felt.

I introduced myself, crouched down next to him, and asked if he needed help. He nodded, hesitant, and I could see his scraped-up hands from wrestling with the jack. He was quiet as I talked him through it, showing him how to steady the jack and loosen the lug nuts. I let him do most of the work, figuring he’d remember it better that way.

By the time the spare was on, his shoulders had loosened a bit. I handed him a couple of bandages from my first aid kit and told him he did a good job. He muttered a thanks, almost under his breath, and something about being bad at this kind of stuff.

I didn’t know what to say at first. I saw something in him I recognized—this quiet frustration, this shame that comes from feeling like you should already know how to handle something. Like you’ve failed just by needing help.

And I couldn’t help but wonder about him. He had the kind of build that spoke of hours in the gym, of someone who cared about being strong, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe that strength was about more than just lifting weights. Maybe it was his way of masking something deeper, something he didn’t want anyone to see.

Driving away, I kept thinking about that moment. I felt fulfilled, sure. It’s good to feel like you’ve helped someone. But I also felt… regret. I should have offered him my contact information, told him to reach out if he ever needed anything else.

Truth is, I think I was a little insecure myself. Maybe I was afraid of how that offer would come across—too forward, too much. Maybe I was worried he’d think I was trying to overstep. So I didn’t say anything.

And now, I wish I had.

Moments like that remind me that strength isn’t just about pushing forward, about what you can do for yourself. It’s about making space for someone else to grow, to feel capable. But it’s also about allowing yourself to show up fully, even if it feels vulnerable.

I hope he remembers how to change a tire. And I hope he remembers that it’s okay to ask for help.

And me? I hope I remember to take my own advice next time.

~ Matthew 🌳