How to Offer Real Support in a Crisis (And What to Say Instead of 'Let Me Know')

The messages arrive like small, glowing birds on the screen of a phone you don’t have the energy to lift. They come from good people, from friends who hold you in their hearts, from family whose worry is a palpable thing. They all say a version of the same sentence, a phrase so common it has become the default script for kindness:

“Let me know if you need anything.”

It is a well-intentioned, generous, and utterly useless offer.

In the landscape of crisis—whether it’s the sterile, beeping world of a hospital ward or the heavy silence of a grieving home—a person’s capacity is the first casualty. Grief and fear are thieves. They steal sleep, appetite, and focus. But their greatest heist is executive function: the ability to plan, to organize, to make a decision, and to delegate. When you are living in a state of constant hypervigilance, your brain does not have the bandwidth to create a to-do list for someone else.

Asking a person who is drowning to inventory their needs, formulate a request, and then project-manage their own rescue is an impossible task. It’s a kind offer that lands like another piece of work. The truth is, we often can’t “let you know” what we need. We can’t remember if there’s milk in the fridge, let alone articulate a request for a grocery run. The mental energy it would take to think of a task is the very energy we are desperately trying to conserve to get through the next hour.

This is the central paradox of support: the people who need it most are often the least capable of asking for it.

So, what is the alternative?

Trade the question mark for a period.

The most profound acts of support we received were not questions; they were statements. They were gentle, specific, and required nothing from us but a "yes" or a quiet acceptance. They removed the cognitive load and replaced it with tangible care.

Instead of: “Let me know if you need anything.”

Try: “I’m at the supermarket. Text me your list.”

Instead of: “Can I help with the kids sometime?”

Try: “I’m taking Skye to the park for an hour on Saturday morning. I’ll be there at 10.”

Instead of: “Thinking of you.”

Try: Leaving a meal on the doorstep with a note that says, “No need to reply. We love you.”

These offers are a kind of medicine.  They don’t require a diagnosis of the problem; they simply provide a dose of relief. They don’t ask the recipient to expend energy. They deliver it.

I know the fear behind the vague offer. It’s the fear of intruding, of offering the wrong thing, of getting in the way. But as I learned, the worst that can happen is you end up with two lasagnas, and that’s still a win.  The risk of a redundant meal is infinitely smaller than the risk of leaving a family to manage their crisis in isolation.

Your specific offer communicates more than the task itself. It says, I have taken a moment to think about what your life might look like right now. I see the invisible work, and I want to carry a piece of it. It is an act of seeing.

So, the next time you reach for your phone to type that kind, useless sentence, pause. Look at your own day, your own capacity. What is one small, concrete thing you can do? Can you mow a lawn? Pick up a prescription? Walk a dog? Fold a load of laundry?

Choose one. Then, turn your offer into a statement. Tell them what you are doing, and when. Remove the burden of the ask. In doing so, you will transform a well-meaning sentiment into the quiet, practical, and profound language of love.