The Grief of Vulnerability

I didn’t know how many walls I had up. I realized it in college. My heart had been barricaded from years of disappointment, ridicule, rejection, and insecurity. I learned well how to master pseudo strength.

My childhood motto was “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

This lie that I told myself burrowed itself deep inside of me. It was like a personal mockery every time I said it. The truth of the matter is, words hurt more than any broken bone I ever had. Words replay over and again in our minds- giving way to further destruction. My defensive motto trained me to believe that my feelings were weak, and I needed to conquer them to be strong and courageous. I believed that my heart needed to be hushed, and my mind needed to be sharp. If I could master this, then I would make it through life.

I did make it through some hard stuff too. The fortress around my heart kept me safe from hatred, humiliation, and crying in front of anyone (which is still really hard to do.)

When I arrived at college, I was surrounded by faithful, creative, curious, and deep thinking individuals. I made friendships that filled my heart. I learned that some people (besides my parents) are worthy of my trust. This was a massive step forward for me. I shared deep thoughts and feelings that I never had before. My walls stayed rock-solid, but if someone was a good climber, they could get over them for a few hours. ;)

I mean that. I made people work for access to my heart. They had to ask the right questions, respond with sensitivity, and follow up accordingly. Trust was earned only with some freaking hard work.

After years of cultivating friendships, heartbreak that made me regret former vulnerability, deepened trust when vulnerability produced intimacy, and counseling that allowed me to process through fractured relationships and depression- I learned that vulnerability is actually a beautiful gift.

Not only that, but I have a unique ability to offer and invite people into vulnerability. My greatest asset as a friend and partner is that I let people discover their emotions, and I can sit in the tension with them.

The grace of this is that my courage, identity, and purpose have been restored.

I sat on facetime with one of my best friends yesterday, and she said to me, “You have grown so much in your willingness to be vulnerable. Honestly, I never even knew this depth of you existed before. Thank you for allowing me to see it.”

My resolution for 2020 was not to make people work for this. I decided to give the vulnerable parts of my heart freely to people who love me. I’m not sharing it with strangers on the street, but my friends don’t need to climb over walls to hear my heart.

What I have learned so far is this, it hurts a whole lot more. It’s painful to share real-time disappointment and not have answers. The practice is essentially emotional nakedness. After a life-long struggle with loneliness, I’ve discovered that vulnerability is likely God’s greatest cure. I believe He has created us to live in community, and with that is the gift to grieve together.

I’ve also learned that people care a lot more than I gave them credit for.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will really hurt me.

Not just words, but the loss of hope in a job I really thought was going to work out, and the relationship I really believed would be the one and the friendships that didn’t continue in the way I expected they would. These things hurt because we value them. Then we miss them when they are gone.

Chip Dodd says, “Sadness is a loving feeling because it expresses value and honor for something or someone gone or lost. Sadness is for wealthy-hearted people.”

To be wealthy-hearted, to me, means that I will have the courage to hope even still. After losing that dream job, after the doubts of unanswered prayers, after years of disappointment. A wealthy heart will feel giddy on a third date. A wealthy heart will expectantly take the pregnancy test after numerous ones before.

A wealthy heart is not ignorant. It’s incredibly courageous. I will not let walls protect me from grief or hope. Because hope may be the most vulnerable place to be of all.