Why I Made Myself Vulnerable

I used to think vulnerabilities were inadequacies. Being vulnerable was something dangerous, something that took away your power, something that would put me at a disadvantage. I thought that sharing my story — my ‘trials and tribulations’ if you will — would make me vulnerable. I was right.

But I wasn’t correct in the way that I thought I would be. Making myself vulnerable turned out to be dangerous in some ways, yes. It made me feel more raw, more open to the world. But instead of taking away my power, it made me feel more powerful. And instead of putting me at a disadvantage, making myself vulnerable opened up opportunities that I never could’ve dreamed of.

The first time I shared my story was to one person: an elderly woman in my grief counseling group that had lost her son to suicide. I told her about how I’d lost my best friend a month earlier. Throughout the two years following, more and more people would attend that group, and more people would hear my story. And to my surprise, instead of feeling vulnerable, I felt safe. I felt a sense of comfort in knowing that other people could share my grief with me, as I could share theirs.

But in this group there was a sense of safety, given that we’d all experienced the same type of loss: a loss to suicide. And many of us in attendance suffered from depression and anxiety ourselves. It was why, likely, we’d formed such unbreakable bonds with the people we were now mourning together.

The feeling of vulnerability didn’t hurt the way I thought it would. The feeling of sharing my story and knowing it gave comfort to others, instead, was empowering. Instead of feeling shame in my own depression or embarrassment about my anxiety, I had a huge sense of relief knowing that others knew — and perhaps more importantly, these people didn’t judge me the way that I thought they would.

So I chose to make myself more vulnerable. I shared my story in front of strangers, I gave talks, I spoke on panels. And instead of feeling this sense of helplessness, I felt respected. I always knew I was in a room full of people filled with not sympathy, but empathy. I was with people that wanted to know how they could help themselves through their grief, their depression, and their anxiety and they genuinely appreciated that I was willing to share my story.

In making myself vulnerable, I helped to keep my best friend alive. Thousands of people have heard about her, not just her death, but her personality and her life. She lives in the memories and hearts of more people than I ever could’ve imagined. In making myself vulnerable, I helped to end the shame I felt about my own mental illnesses.

In making myself vulnerable, I made myself brave.