As much as I might be lauded for my vulnerability, I’m not always comfortable with my vulnerability.
I tend to operate in extremes. There are times when I’m completely swallowed by my emotions—pulled into depths so intense I lose any sense of direction. It is all consuming. This is where I feel the most vulnerable. Few people get to witness this version of me, and no one can rescue me from it (except maybe a trained professional). It’s the part of myself I struggle to accept. I can’t hear my intuition because my inner critic grows so loud. So I try to push those parts away, insisting that this can’t be who I am. I tell myself I’m stronger than this. I should be stronger than this.
I can trace that line of thinking directly back to childhood, where vulnerability wasn’t exactly welcomed. There was little space for big feelings in my house—unless they were happy or angry ones. What lived inside me was an unrelenting longing for tenderness, care, and attention that fueled my sensitivity. Still, my tears were often met with discomfort, intolerance, or ridicule, especially growing up with two older brothers (not for the faint of heart). That response only deepened the hurt over time, until it became shame.
I was “too sensitive”—and I understood early on that wasn’t a compliment.
So, I did what so many children do: I traded authenticity for acceptance, both within my family and out in the world. Vulnerability and sensitivity became traits I needed to manage, control, or, better yet, conceal. The same went for many of my soft, tender desires—they were quietly tucked away, deemed too much, inconvenient, and fragile for the spaces I moved through.