What the Heck is Vulnerability?

I was inspired to write this after reading Noah’s piece. I think that we’re circling similar ideas from different angles. 

I am a very closed-off, private person. (The exception seems to be when it’s in writing form on the tpc but moving on…) Sharing my life doesn’t come naturally, and for a while, I saw this as a problem. I tried to open up. After all, I was told that “People will trust you,” “Vulnerability is so powerful,” and “It’s how you build community.” So when I had a budding friendship, I would try to spearhead the relationship—by revealing an insecurity, silently praying that I’d become self-actualized and likable. Suffice to say, this wasn’t working. Instead of feeling liberated, I felt awkward and self-conscious. Some might call this part of self-growth, but I just never found it worthwhile. And since I pride myself on actively not choosing comfort, I really had to stop and think.

What’s going on? Why do I feel pressure?

What am I avoiding? Maybe attachment issues? Childhood wounds? Probably, it’s trust issues of some kind.

I found the first two questions easy to answer. Vulnerability has become a cultural buzzword, largely due to Brené Brown’s work. At its core, it’s the act of exposing yourself to emotional risk in the presence of others. Making space for uncertainty. When practiced, it builds courage and authentic connections. It’s the antidote to shame—the key to joy, love, and belonging. Maybe it makes us feel weak, but it’s a strength!

And I don’t disagree.

Sharing our struggles is valuable.

I’ve seen firsthand the relational benefits. Sharing stories has connected me with people I otherwise would not have. And over time, those individuals have become some of my closest friends.

Other times, when I’m struggling with shame, the act of telling someone is powerful. Instantly, I feel better, and know I am not alone. And a compassionate response is a reminder that I am loved in spite of my failings.

Finally, it is such an honor to make space for others. It means that I’m entrusted with intimate parts of humanity, and through listening, I become more empathetic and less judgmental.

***

Despite this, I think “vulnerability” has been twisted. It’s become an aesthetic.

Picture this. I’m going to a gathering at my friend’s house. We know each other relatively well, but I’m not completely comfortable. They’re nice people but are still getting to know me. I’m still self-conscious and want to avoid being misunderstood. How do I present myself?

Well, I can show up as confident as I can and make sure to show my best self. Rather than being fully honest, I can emphasize my intelligence and athleticism. I’ll make sure to tell stories that present me in a positive light and of course exaggerate when necessary. Anything to make myself look desirable.

But this is rude and annoying. My friends aren’t going to enjoy listening to me and will understandably become uncomfortable.

Okay, so instead I’ll do the opposite. Perhaps these folks value humility and unfiltered honesty. I’ll bring my insecurities often, add qualifiers to my positive qualities, and make sure they know Michelle is a piece of shit.

Will they like me now? Maybe if they’re mean and want ammunition. But, most likely, this will also be annoying. Not only that, they’ll feel pressure to provide emotional support. Now, I’m the center of attention, and they have more emotional labor than they bargained for. When I’m really going through it, this might be okay, but in general, this is selfish of me and will lead to unbalanced relationships.

Hmm, I’ll find a middle ground. It’s important that I show I’m flawed, not special, and completely humble, but I also need to communicate that I’m a confident, independent woman. That way, my new friends know that I’m a self-aware human with flaws, but am not in need of excessive emotional support.

So, is it considered vulnerability if I say my love life is nonexistent? What if I talked about not sleeping because I couldn’t stop binge-watching Love Island? Or, better yet, what if I confess that I left work two hours early without my boss knowing?

Most people would probably say yes. I’m demonstrating that I’m not perfect, and am risking judgment.

But I’d push back and say this actually makes me relatable, and my social reward is a few giggles. By showing my flaws, I’m more likable, and easier to connect with. Being lighthearted in this manner puts others at ease, and in turn, I become desirable.

Zooming out, what if I perform peak vulnerability? What if I talk about—gasp—my mental illness and trauma?

It’s possible that I’ll be judged. Some will misunderstand me, or use what I say to project their own insecurities. But, in general, this isn’t the case. Most respond with overwhelming compassion and empathy. In future interactions, I’m more likely to be granted the benefit of the doubt. And isn’t that the best case scenario?

And what if I keep quiet? What will people think of me then?

I will never know for certain, but I can take some educated guesses based on what I’ve been told.

I’m probably intimidating, difficult to read and make others uncomfortable. People conclude my lack of social pleasantries means that I don’t like them. And my scatterbrained nature and awkwardness signal a lack of social awareness. Others think I’m passive-aggressive because of my sarcasm.

Without going into detail, I hate this. Not because it’s exposing. It’s not. I know that I’m the exact opposite, and I wish people could just trust me.

And sure, I get it. I’m shy, awkward, and a little too blunt. Social norms confuse me. I struggle in conversations with new people.

***

True vulnerability is a social risk. Sometimes sharing trauma or insecurities does this, but not always.

Often, what gets praised for vulnerability is neatly packaged trauma designed to create a likable image. It shows others we “get” it, are socially competent, and have just the right amount of humility.

It’s also pleasant to receive. Curated stories are comforting and don’t threaten the ego.

And that’s okay. Being relatable boosts social capital. It’s morally neutral.

***

So why do I remain a private person?

I’d like to give a profound philosophical answer, but it’s simple. I don’t want to.

(The irony is not lost on me that this piece has curated vulnerability.)