I WAS always a sensitive child—familiar with a heartfelt cry and moved easily by both cruelty and beauty. However, I did not always like this side of me. Ocean Vuong has a line in his book entitled On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous that encompasses my approach towards emotional vulnerability almost perfectly: “To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted.”
Apologies for the Freudian self-diagnosis, but I also always knew my fear of showing vulnerability stems from the emotionally explosive environment I grew up in. Passion and earnestness—in my experience—only triggered volatility and instability.
I grew to favor calmness, control, and order to avoid the wreckage that came with heartfelt expression. I had always been shy as a kid, but I continued to cultivate this method of concealment like a magic trick that protected me when I was younger. Those older than me praised me for my “maturity,” and I treated my trust like an extremely rare piece of jewelry that only those most deserving among my peers would be given. Every time I expressed strong emotions, I would immediately recoil and chastise myself to conceal better next time.
This fear of vulnerability, which I mistook for independence, served me adequately as I matured into my twenties. I became precise with almost every aspect of my life to maintain this inner sense of control—calculating almost every step to maintain predictability in my interactions. I also treated my emotional needs like ailments to be medicated with enough time with friends and good heart-felt media to cry to when I needed it.
When the pandemic struck in 2020, I was partially relieved to put off the necessary growing pains that I knew were prerequisites to forming close interpersonal relationships.
However, continuing to build these ironclad walls also stifled the side of me that is emotional, sensitive, and even loving. The emotional cage that used to protect me increasingly became a hindrance to my own joy and capacity to receive love.
Although I thought I could put off the necessary inner work during my college years, the past two years have instead magnified my need for vulnerability more so than I dared realize. Independence does suit me best—with or without my fear of being weighed down by attachments—but there would always be a gnawing feeling inside me that urged me to reach out and break down all the self-restrictions I carefully built over the years.
Just like everyone else, I grew weary of both physical and emotional isolation as the pandemic went on. It was especially burdensome for me as this isolation only exacerbated my toxic coping patterns. The last straw to this—the breaking point at which I realized I could not continue to live like this—was when I led myself to choose people who were nearly as emotionally unavailable as I am just because it was what felt safe.
When the new year turned over, I joked around with my friends that the coming months would be my “live, laugh, love” chapter. Jokes aside, what this really means is that I’m slowly giving up the illusion that I can continue to deny an integral aspect of what it means to be human. There are ways, I now realize, to express myself without causing destruction.
In a modern world that places extreme emphasis on hyper-individuality and grit, there really is something radical about cultivating tenderness during every chance one can get.
My fear of vulnerability cannot be resolved overnight or even before I graduate and step into “real” independence. Nonetheless, I’m slowly growing the courage to free myself from my own walls—even if it means risking being seen.
