There are parts of myself I’ve spent years learning to show to the world—parts I once kept buried under layers of charm, deflection, and distraction. I’ve learned to tell my story, to crack open the past like an old diary with frayed corners and tear-streaked pages. I’ve learned to own my trauma, name my pain, and stand in the power of surviving things that should have broken me. And yet, for all the progress, all the unflinching honesty I’ve spilled into blog posts and conversations—I still struggle with vulnerability.
Real, in-the-moment vulnerability. The kind that doesn’t come with an editor or a backspace key. The kind that happens face-to-face, not behind a screen or dressed in humor. The kind that requires you to stand still, let someone see you, and trust that they won’t flinch.
That’s where I still stumble.
I’ve always been a master storyteller. I can recount pain like poetry and package trauma with a punchline. I can tell you about being kicked out at 16, about surviving abuse and cancer and a world that told me I didn’t belong—and I can do it with a laugh, a quip, a dazzling delivery that leaves you entertained, maybe even moved. But ask me how I feel right now—raw, unfiltered, unperformed—and I clam up. The room gets smaller. My skin feels thinner.
Because vulnerability isn’t just honesty. It’s presence. And presence has always been dangerous for someone like me.
I learned early on that being vulnerable was a liability. When I cried, I got hurt. When I told the truth, I got punished. When I showed fear, someone weaponized it. So I adapted. I learned to preempt pain by hiding the soft parts. I became brilliant at being okay. Resilient. Witty. Unbothered.
But the truth is, I am bothered. I get scared. I get overwhelmed. I overthink things I said four days ago. I cry during insurance commercials. I’m terrified sometimes that people will leave—not because they don’t love me, but because I might not let them love all of me.
And still, despite all that fear, I keep trying.
Matthew helps. He doesn’t just love me—he makes it safe to be loved. He doesn’t demand I be open, but he creates the kind of space where openness feels like a gift instead of a gamble. He listens when I don’t make sense. He stays when I try to push. He gently calls me out when I hide behind humor. And maybe most importantly, he never treats my vulnerability like it’s too much.
That’s new for me.
It’s also terrifying.
Because being vulnerable, especially in healthy relationships, brings up a different kind of fear—the fear of what happens after you’re seen. After the mask slips. After the guard drops. Will they still stay? Will they still love the version of you that isn’t curated, clever, or composed?
That’s the quiet power of vulnerability. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t come dressed in armor. It walks in with trembling hands and says, “Here I am. Please don’t run.”
And sometimes, when you’re lucky, someone responds, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Tips for Embracing Vulnerability (Even If You’re Terrible At It Like Me)
- Start With Low-Stakes Honesty: If baring your soul feels impossible, start with telling someone you’re having a weird day. Or that you don’t actually like that restaurant. Or that you’re nervous and don’t know why. Vulnerability is like a muscle—it strengthens with use.
- Practice Naming Your Feelings: Sometimes, the hardest part is just figuring out what we feel. Try this: When you’re upset or shut down, ask yourself, “What am I feeling right now?” Don’t edit. Just name it. (I try to do this but often answer with, “I don’t know,” even when I do know. I’m working on that.)
- Use Humor, But Don’t Hide In It: Look, I love a good deflection. But there’s a difference between seasoning your truth with wit and burying it under sarcasm. I’m still learning that the two can co-exist.
- Find Your Safe People: Not everyone deserves your vulnerability. That’s not cynicism—it’s wisdom. Learn who’s earned the right to see you fully, and start there. (Shoutout to Matthew, Shelby, and the rest of my chosen family.)
- Write It First If You Need To: Some of my biggest emotional breakthroughs came from writing them down before I said them out loud. If it helps you understand what you’re feeling, it’s worth doing—even if no one ever reads it.
- Celebrate The Tries: Vulnerability isn’t about perfection. It’s about effort. Even if you try and it comes out awkward, weird, or too much—you tried. That’s progress. That’s bravery.
- Remind Yourself You’re Still Worthy: This one’s hard. But when you feel too messy, too emotional, too broken—remember: vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s connection. And you’re worthy of love even on your hardest days.
So yeah, I still struggle with it. I still armor up. I still occasionally ghost conversations when I feel too exposed. But I’m learning. I’m unlearning. I’m showing up.
Because I want to be seen. Not just the polished, performative version—but the real one. The scared one. The soft one. The whole one.
And if you’re someone who struggles with this too, just know: you’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re just human. And every time you try again, no matter how small—it matters.
Let’s keep trying together.