What's the deal with vulnerability?
Part 1 of a conversation about what we say we want to be
I distinctly recall a time over the past decade when certain words started making it into our generational vernacular, and I started hearing terms like “narcissist,” “OCD,” and “boundaries” a great deal more frequently than I used to. I think this probably coincided with the normalization of therapy which, to be clear, is a great thing; as a result, hitherto sensitive, clinical, or niche concepts have become more mainstream and, dare I say, a bit general.
One word that seems to have become a mainstay of our vocabulary is “vulnerable”. Unlike some of the other buzzwords that we’ve become comfortable using casually, this word seems to come up exclusively in the context of fear and discomfort. Curiously, it’s something we seem to both aspire to and avoid.
So you can imagine my surprise that it’s the word that comes up most frequently when people talk about my writing. Its ubiquity in this context has made me want to unpack this word—one that’s uniquely complimentary and, simultaneously, deeply uncomfortable.
I began with a thought experiment: I asked a bunch (please accept this as a scientific metric) of my friends what the word “vulnerable” meant to them. A fascinating trend immediately emerged: almost everyone used the word “exposed”.
“Exposed” as in vulnerable to danger; at risk of being seen and harmed.
Interesting. So the compliment implies that there is some degree of danger to my writing, that I am risking exposure. This is curious because when I write, all I am doing is telling the truth; it is just information to me. Being called “vulnerable” makes me wonder if I should be withholding some of this information; if, indeed, I am endangering myself. This sounds bad! And yet, it is undoubtedly a compliment, one that is usually given in the context of, “I wish I could be this vulnerable.”
It’s made me suspect that there may be a misconflation of vulnerability and truthfulness—which is to say that what seems vulnerable to others might just be someone being honest. I think the subtext here is that what I share must be truths that my readers, personally, would never share, even if they wanted to.
So for those who want to be more vulnerable, I will share my first rule of vulnerability: I only share things that I know and accept and have found a measure of peace with. I do not recommend sharing anything that you are unresolved about. When I write honestly, I am not randomly spewing the raw and tender parts of myself that cause me pain.
There are a ton of fears and insecurities and things I am not ok with feeling that I do not share in my writing; those are things I’m still working out, and a part of my experience that would be inappropriate to invite others into. I’m in the middle of a particularly humbling process right now that I’m nowhere near ready to talk about. Those are the things that, were I to share them, would leave me exposed.
So assume that if you’re reading it, I’m ok with it—but even if I am, maybe you aren’t. I think that perhaps this discomfort—not mine, but the reader’s—is what makes me seem vulnerable. What if—hear me out—what we perceive as another person’s vulnerability is a compass to our own?
Socially speaking, vulnerability means exposing ourselves to rejection and ridicule. I get it; ironically, that is something that I am particularly terrified of. It is a natural and necessary social instinct, in my opinion, to protect ourselves from criticism and judgement—therefore, it is absolutely essential that the parts of ourselves that we share are the parts of ourselves that we embrace. I don’t subscribe to the idea of being “real” to make a statement—we’ve never been as exposed on an individual level as we are today, and the risk of baring our open wounds in public is too great.
I say this because I have done this 🙄 Just today—just today—I posted, and promptly deleted, an ig story that I was too salty about to share responsibly or neutrally. Another good rule of thumb is that even if it feels true, if it’s reactive, then it’s not safe.
I try to keep in mind something I heard years ago: if being criticized for it would make you change your mind about it, then you’re not ready to share it. Maybe vulnerability and conviction go hand-in-hand—and the kicker is, maybe having certainty renders us invulnerable. And maybe vulnerability—as we perceive it—doesn’t exist at all.
The last piece I wrote that people called “vulnerable” was the one about how we can all be good writers. What exactly, I’ve wondered, was vulnerable about this? That I undercut my own profession? That I said I will never write as well as the writers I admire? These are simply matters of fact to me, in the sense that nobody will convince me otherwise—and it is perfectly alright. I can’t possibly feel rejected for what I know is plainly true: my eyes are brown, water is a hydrating beverage, and I love what I write, even if I think there are better writers than me.
What is frightening to share are the things I am afraid might be true—the things that I fear will become real if I say them out loud. That—exposing ourselves to a reality we’re not ready for—is needlessly reckless. Being vulnerable, though? I think vulnerability isn’t what happens between us and the world; it’s how honest we are with ourselves.
I think what makes honesty vulnerable is expressing it without the safety net of anyone else telling us it’s going to be ok. Acknowledging our fears to ourselves, I think, is the most frightening thing in the world because there isn’t a chorus of people who can tell us what we want to hear.
The thing about sharing what we’re afraid of out loud is that as well as an audience that can reject us, we can find one that can reassure us. And in my opinion, that’s the danger of being vulnerable by sharing what we haven’t yet made peace with: it sets our fears free in the world to do damage in a way that only unchecked fear can. Our pain will always find bodies that will feed it and cause it to metastasize.
So my take is that if we want to be vulnerable, we have to reckon with our discomfort alone to neutralize it before we share it with anyone else. Isn’t the idea of it dreadful?
All my vulnerability really is is the result of opting into a permanent cycle of discomfort and acceptance, ad nauseum. The moment I’ve dealt with one thing, the next thing presents itself, like a neverending batting cage in which I’m the one being beaten to a pulp by one bat-wielding inconvenient truth after another. But I guess it must be worth it because every time I share a truth that has humbled me into submission, people say, “Wow, I wish that was me.”
Another word we seem to be saying an awful lot these days, and that dovetails really nicely with a conversation about vulnerability, is “authentic”. I think that’s because social media makes personas of people, and it’s never been harder to just be “ourselves” than it is online. Second to “vulnerable”, it’s the word that comes up most often when people talk about my writing.
I wanted to write about authenticity today, but now realize it is a second post all on its own. So please stay tuned for Part 2—because, unsurprisingly, I have many thoughts about what this word means 😌 (Spoiler: I think it’s a scam.)
Before I leave you today, I want to invite you to take part in the aforementioned thought experiment—I’m willing to be wrong, and I’d love to hear other perspectives:
What does vulnerability mean to you?
See you at authenticity,
