Being Vulnerable Even When I Don’t Feel Like It

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I stood on the box and opened my mouth praying whatever came out of it was enough to cover my discomfort and camouflaged enough to hide behind the other stories people had spent the last two hours sharing.

My professor stood at the front of the room on a Monday morning at 9:35 and announced to the class we would be sharing our deepest, most intimate stories with each other… in the middle of the room… in front of the class… on top of a box.  And I was not loving that idea.

I’m typically the girl who sits quietly in the classroom, doesn’t raise a hand unless I’ve triple-checked the answer to be true, turn a shade of bright red if I am actually called on, and I NEVER voluntarily speak about my personal feelings.  This lady wanted me to share my story with 29 other people in the room that I didn’t know?!  I turned around twice to the guy sitting next to me and told him I was going to throw up.  I can laugh about this now, but I wish I was making this stuff up.  If you want to know a way to torture me, this is it.

Vulnerability is scary.

I struggle to admit something is wrong when it’s easier to say, “I’m fine,” and move on. I don’t want to tell people what I’m going through because it’s easier to be quiet and not burden someone with listening to me when I’m sure they have problems too.  I don’t like to tell people there is something wrong because I’d rather try to deal with things myself.  It’s easier to be surface level.  Surface is never deep, and I have control over what people think about me.  It’s comfortable, convenient and safe.

Vulnerability is scary because I care way too much what other people think.  Before I open my mouth, I have already thought of a long list of scenarios that could go wrong.  Then I start asking the questions that make me list a million excuses of why I shouldn’t share what I’ve gone through.

What will people think about me if they know I struggle with this?  I’ll be looked at differently. What will people assume about me if they know?  I don’t want them to judge me.  What if I’m the only one struggling and no one else can relate?  Then it’s just embarrassing.  What do I do if people don’t really want to listen?  I’m sure they have other things to do.  Will I be thought of as less than?  I can’t have them thinking something is wrong with me.

The list goes on and on and on until I finally decide not to share at all because I tell myself the lie that it will make my life and other’s life easier if I just keep my mouth shut.  The real answer to the questions I ask myself?  They are all excuses.

I’m skilled at building up walls high enough so no one can peek over them.  I’m a professional at hiding what I feel.  I’ve mastered the pageantry of attempted perfection.

I used to think it was better to be seen as perfect than to be seen as real.  I would rather have people think I don’t struggle with anything than let them know I struggle with some things. 

The box was scary to me because I’d rather seem perfect and pretend nothing is wrong.   It’s scary because sharing requires me to trust someone else.  I’m afraid to trust that people will accept me instead of judge me.  

It’s scary because I don’t want to give people the chance to see flaws I already see in myself. 

I’ve been intentionally working on this recently.  I’m learning that no one is perfect, so I don’t need to pretend to be.  I want to be the one who owns what I’m going through, and have been through, because that’s what’s real. 

Vulnerability gives way to confidence; perfectionism gives way to insecurities.  I would rather help someone through an insecurity, not be the reason they have one.  It’s intimidating to reach out to someone who looks like they don’t have any problems.  I want to be the friend who says, “I get you, and I’m here for you.”  Not the one who stands in the back and doesn’t open her mouth because I’m scared of how it will look.  My pride is worth laying down when it comes to that.

There were 29 other people who stepped onto the box with tears, tissues, and open hearts.  They were each ready to share their hurts no matter how uncomfortable it felt or how scary it was.  When they stepped off the box, I saw a different, deeper level of the person than what I knew before.  I saw a fighter.  I saw an overcomer.  I saw real, raw and honest.  I saw vulnerable. 

It might be really hard for me to be vulnerable, but my morning on the box was a reminder.  It’s a reminder that there is so much more to people than what we see or think we know.  People are fighting or have fought the same battles we think we are alone in.  This world is broken; this world is hurting; and this world needs people who are unapologetically ready to show up as their real selves.  I need to be ready to share, encourage and say, “I’ve been there too, and I’m here for you.”

So, I stepped onto the box with shaky legs (and a lot of grumbling).  I shared my story, and I’m living to tell the tale.  I’m just a girl pushing herself (and you) to stand on the box and share a story. 

Own it.  Be confident in it.  It’s your story.

“But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” 2 Corinthians 12:9

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