Vulnerability was for everyone else

Until I found the strength in it

I lay on the floor of my apartment for a week, crying. I had opened the gate, and the tears just kept coming and coming. I had to call in sick for work. I could only stomach bananas. My therapist was worried the workshop had gone too deep, too fast.

I was glad it had.

I’d always prided myself on being strong. If shit hit the fan, I was a rock. I got things done. I fought whatever battle was needed. Vulnerability was for everyone else.

An earlier therapy session comes to mind. My therapist had me do a visualisation and then asked me to draw what I saw. I can’t remember what the visualisation was, but I remember exactly what I drew. A person covered in dark armour from head to toe. Spikes protruding from all sides. Two bright blue eyes peering out from behind the heavy metal headpiece.

I knew it was me.

That image had been accurate for a long time.

Then I went to an intensive personal development workshop, and something shifted.

We spent the weekend doing exercises to explore ourselves, open up, and trust each other. The grand finale was an exercise of your own choosing. Something that let a previously hidden part of you emerge.

For people who were usually shy, it was performing in front of the group. A dance, a song, a reading. But that wasn’t me. I had no problem performing.

That was exactly the problem.

I was always performing in one way or another. Being who I thought others needed me to be. Acting strong and capable. Getting shit done.

The hidden part of me was the little girl who was unseen, in pain, and who had built armour around herself for protection.

So, my exercise was different.

All the workshop participants sat on chairs in a big circle. Maybe twenty or thirty people. I slowly walked up to each person, stood in front of them, and held up a photo of me as a young girl. I looked each person in the eyes and asked them to look at the photo, and to see me and love me.

The armour that had protected me for so long felt like it was ripped off.

I’m sure I was shaking as I moved from person to person. But each person took time to look at the photo, then me, and really see me with love. No one laughed or mocked me or pitied me. They just held the space and saw me and loved me.

As I made my way around the circle, tears began to flow. Giant tears, from a well that had been building for a long time. I let them come. I felt supported.

I didn’t walk out of that workshop having it all figured out. I walked out feeling seen and supported, but cracked open and raw.

Slowly, in between the waves of tears on the floor of my apartment the following week, I began to integrate it. The tears were cathartic in a way I hadn’t expected. It was a release. I was painfully sad, but in a weird way, it also felt good. Like how you feel after vomiting, even though vomiting is a bit shit.

Fully integrating the experience and this newfound part of myself took time. A lot of journalling. Conversations with my therapist and people from the workshop who continued to support me.

What I found on the other side of that workshop wasn’t weakness. It was a different kind of strength. One I hadn’t known was available to me. A real strength that comes from allowing yourself to be vulnerable and being okay with it.

Now I feel my emotions and I give them space. If I feel lost or scared or overwhelmed, I can admit it, to myself and to others. And if I need to cry, I cry.

Where are you wearing armour that you think is protecting you, but might be keeping you hidden? Is there a part of you that’s been asking to be seen?