On Vulnerability: A Soft Ache, A Quiet Courage

There’s something about vulnerability that gets over-simplified these days.

We throw it around in reels and keynotes, tell each other “be more vulnerable”, as if it’s a task on a to-do list. But if you’ve ever actually been vulnerable — like, gut-deep, tremble-in-your-voice, heart-on-the-line kind of vulnerable — you know it’s no small ask.

It’s not aesthetic. It’s not always empowering. It’s messy. Often humiliating. Sometimes, it even backfires.

The Slow Ache of Being Real

I remember once, in a group supervision session years ago, I shared something deeply personal. Something I hadn’t yet made peace with. My voice quivered, my palms sweated. And when I was done — there was silence. Long, aching silence.

Later, someone said something kind. But in that moment, I remember thinking — Why did I say that out loud?

That’s the thing no one tells you. Vulnerability doesn’t always land in soft arms. Sometimes it lands on cold floors.

And yet.

And yet, it is the most human thing about us.

To be breakable. And brave enough to show it.

The Bridge-Plank Analogy

Think of vulnerability like walking across a rope bridge — old, rickety, with missing wooden planks. Every step forward is a risk: Will I fall? Will this hold me?

Each time you share a truth, open up, admit a fear — you're placing your weight on a plank, unsure if it will support you.

Sometimes, you get across safely — a friend holds space, a therapist listens deeply, a moment of truth brings closeness. Other times, the plank snaps. You’re met with mockery, minimization, blank stares. And your nervous system remembers that fall.

So it’s no wonder we hesitate.

The Myth of “Safe” Vulnerability

We talk about vulnerability like it’s always a choice — like it’s brave and healthy and healing. But here’s a perspective I’ve learned from the therapy room and my own life:

Not all vulnerability is safe.

Not all families can hold it.

Not all cultures encourage it.

Not all partners welcome it.

To ask people to “open up” without acknowledging where they’re opening up, or who they’re opening up to — is not just naïve, it can be harmful.

Brené Brown reminds us that vulnerability is uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure.

But what happens when we are not accepted? When the risk becomes rupture?

The Cultural Context We Often Miss

Especially in the Indian context — where generations have been raised to "toughen up", "not wash dirty linen", or "keep the family’s izzat" — vulnerability is not just hard. It’s sometimes seen as betrayal.

It can be mistaken for weakness, drama, or even rebellion.

A young client once told me, “When I tried to share my anxiety with my parents, they said ‘everyone feels like this, stop overthinking.’ I felt smaller than I did before.”

In such spaces, even recognizing one’s feelings becomes a radical act.

So when we talk about vulnerability, we must remember: the soil we grow in matters. The social norms. The caste, class, gendered scripts. The trauma we carry. All of it shapes how safe it feels to let our guard down.

Still, Something in Us Reaches

And yet. Despite all this.Despite the risks. Despite the ache. We still reach out.

We still find ways to say, “I’m hurting” — in whispers, in poems, in therapy, in quiet texts sent late at night.

Because something in us refuses to give up on being seen.

A Personal Note

I won’t lie to you and say vulnerability is always healing. Sometimes it hurts like hell.

But I will say this — when it is received with care, it can change everything.

In my own life, and in the therapy room, I have witnessed what happens when someone’s trembling truth is held — not fixed, not judged, just held.

And it is quietly life-changing.

Irvin Yalom, a legendary psychotherapist who has deeply inspired me, says:

“The act of revealing oneself fully to another and still being accepted may be the major vehicle of therapeutic help.”

If you’ve ever shared something raw and felt exposed or shamed — I see you.

If you're someone who's never had safe spaces to be real — I get that.

And if you're slowly, tentatively, trying again — I’m cheering for you.

Let your vulnerability be a choice, not a demand. Let it come in whispers, in safe company, in your own time.

Because vulnerability isn’t performance. It’s presence. It’s risk.And sometimes — it’s resistance.