My Journey with Vulnerability: Vulnerability is its own courage  


It took me a long time to sit with this and put it into words. Not because I did not know what I wanted to say, but because I had to revisit the parts of myself that learned this lesson slowly and sometimes painfully. Vulnerability as strength is not something many of us are taught. Most of us grow up learning that strength means holding everything together without letting anything slip. We try to appear composed, steady, and capable even when something inside us feels like it is shaking. I used to believe that showing anything softer would mean I had failed at being strong. 

I carried this belief into therapy when I first began. I remember sitting across from my therapist, wanting to be honest but also wanting to seem like someone who had her life under control. I felt the pressure to be the strong version of myself that people expected. Even in that safe room, I felt the urge to hide the parts of me that felt tired or confused or afraid. I thought therapy was a place to speak neatly, to present well, to say things that sounded insightful. I did not realise that therapy is where strength is allowed to crumble a little so that something more true can emerge. 

As the weeks went by, something softened. It did not happen all at once. It happened in the tiniest moments. A sentence I let myself say without rehearsing. A tear I did not wipe away too quickly. A pause where I stopped pretending I had things figured out. Each time I allowed myself to be real, I felt a different kind of strength rising. Not the strength I put on like armour, but a strength that came from being honest with myself. 

The more we show our humanity, the more we learn how strong we really are. Vulnerability is not about collapsing under pressure. It is about staying with our truth even when we do not know how it will be received. It is about allowing someone to see us clearly and choosing that openness even when it feels risky. 

We often think strength means moving through life with no cracks. But what if the cracks are how light enters. What if strength is the ability to sit with our pain without rushing to hide it. What if it is the courage to say something hurts. Or that we need help. Or that we are uncertain about what comes next. 

I realised through therapy that vulnerability is what connects us to other people. When we filter ourselves too much, we build walls instead of bridges. But when we speak from the parts of us that are real and alive and slightly trembling, others recognise themselves in us. That recognition becomes connection. Connection becomes support. Support becomes healing. 

As I softened into vulnerability, I noticed that I no longer needed to perform strength. I did not need to convince anyone that I was fine all the time. I could simply be human. And in that humanness, I discovered a steadiness I never found in pretending. 

We all live with the fear that if we let people see our struggle, they might see us as weak. But the truth is, vulnerability requires more courage than silence ever did. It asks us to show up without certainty. It asks us to trust that our imperfect selves are worthy of love and understanding. And it teaches us to see others with the same gentleness. 

Today, when I sit with clients or students who hesitate to open up, I understand their fear. I have lived that fear. And I also know that on the other side of vulnerability is a version of ourselves that feels lighter, kinder, and more connected. We share our stories not because they are perfect but because they are real. We speak from our hearts, not because we want to be strong but because we want to be honest. 

If there is one thing therapy has taught me, it is this. It is not what we carry on our shoulders. Strength is what we allow ourselves to feel. It grows in the moments when we choose truth over performance. It softens us. Strength opens us. Strength makes room for life. 

And maybe, if we let it, vulnerability becomes the most powerful form of strength we will ever know. 

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