When I was a Leadership Camp Counsellor in high school, we would hold a session called “Dyadic's” - the interaction between two individuals. Counsellors would lead the session, going around the room asking questions to the campers, ranging from “what’s your biggest dream?” to “what is the hardest thing you’ve ever lived through?”. Campers and Counsellors alike would put their biggest vulnerabilities on display, crying without fear of being judged or ridiculed for feeling such big things at young ages. The most powerful form of empathy was built in those moments - the ability to listen, to understand, and to tell someone it’s okay to feel what they feel. Those moments feel like dreams now; the soft lighting, the quiet tears, the gentle touch of a stranger comforting you. I don’t remember much about what I shared, but I will always remember the stories my peers shared with me.
The lives of other people have always interested me, far more than my own.
I was taught to make friends by asking questions, so in conversations I always find myself on the receiving end of an answer. I have spent so long asking questions that answering them has become difficult; I never tested well in school and that’s leaked into my social interactions. I don’t mind the casual “how’s your day, what’s your mom doing,” but branching into unfamiliar territory like “Why are you having trouble sleeping?” or “Come on, how are you REALLY?” always throws my chatting game off. As much as I enjoy and embrace the vulnerability of others, I am so uncomfortable exposing it about myself. There’s an egotistical fear attached to showing others how weak I really feel, like someone will think less of me for what goes on in my head.
Since Dyadic's, the times where I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable have come from dark places. Whether it was breaking down at a fun cottage weekend over a horrible relationship, suffering time blackouts due to emotional stress, or just plain having anxiety attacks in front of my friends, these times of vulnerability have been unplanned and extremely uncomfortable for everyone involved. Hallmark hasn’t made a line of “Hey, sorry for losing control of both my physical and mental being in front of you, thanks for not calling the police” cards yet, but when they do, some lovely people should expect one in the mail.
However, it is not always lovely people who have experienced me at my weakest. The responses of others have also played a large part in what I allow myself to share. The fear of once again being called gross, pathetic, or being told to get over it have laid down a pretty solid wall of “DO NOT TALK ABOUT IT.” Empathy is a difficult trait to master when you’re young, and I don’t blame others for not understanding something they have never experienced. But one bad experience can overshadow the potential of having multiple good ones - I just don’t want my vulnerabilities to be the first thing someone thinks of when they see me.
But what does that mean for others opening themselves up to me? How can I create positive and emotionally stable relationships by refusing to share the bad stuff with someone who loves me? I recently explained to a friend the struggles and discomfort I have with being vulnerable, and he replied with “Well, how would I ever share anything with you if you won’t share anything with me?”. Let me tell you friends, I was a little taken aback by how right he was. I can’t blame all of this on one bad relationship, but I spent so long being a vessel for someone else to pour themselves into, and spent so long trying to make them feel okay with not feeling okay that I never stopped to worry about my own emotions. My knowledge of emotional vulnerability was created during the darkest of experiences, and reliving those moments is often too difficult to process; I don't want someone else to have to give some of themselves to me so I can feel whole.
Vulnerability does not always grow from pain - it’s about allowing someone else to see you and still say “Hey, you’re not the worst and I still like you.” It’s about communicating fears, hopes, darkness, and all the other stuff in-between. For me, it’s a constant battle between allowing someone to understand me while also maintaining some semblance of strength when I’m at my lowest. It’s a struggle I hope will eventually end, as my trust in others grows and their trust in me continues. I will always try to be someone to talk to, and if that means feeling uncomfortable, so be it. I’m ready to break down the “DO NOT TALK ABOUT IT” wall, and will have “thanks for listening to me cry” card waiting for whoever is on the other side.
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