Vulnerability

I had the most wonderful, leisurely, caffeine-fueled, all-encompassing, gab ‘til you’re breathless, laugh ‘til you cry, jump from one topic to the next but never finish a story, feel it in my soul and lasts three hours but goes by in the blink of an eye kind of lunch with a dear friend today. And as we bounced from one thought to the next like fireflies in the night, I had a compelling and reassuring realization: I’ve found a kindred spirit. A friend with whom I can bare my soul and show all the intricacies that lie within, as ugly and complicated as they might be. And to have a friend like that is second to none. I’m just so grateful for what we have.

As we talked, conversation inevitably turned to our writing endeavors, as we are both avid writers who are sort of wayward in a similar fashion. Neither of us knows where we want our writing to end up, but we both know we have so much we want to say. Both of us share sparingly and hesitate at the thought of writing professionally (beyond the scope of our own circles) and gasp at the idea of heading down the path towards getting published, even if neither of us would rule it out. As this conversation evolved, we talked candidly about the idea of vulnerability. We each fear feeling so exposed by the things we chose to write about, and as such, we each stow our writing away and tell ourselves that maybe we’ll share another day. Another year. Another lifetime.

As I’m dip my toes in the more public forum of a separate writing page and explore kick starting my blog again, I feel more vulnerable than ever. I have no concrete way of knowing who is reading my posts and content. And there’s something really, really scary about that to me. No, not scary because I’m putting myself at risk of anything tangible. Scary because I’m letting the world in and becoming visible in ways that I’ve always refrained from. I’m a bit of a private person in my day to day life. I keep things to myself for the most part and am a much better listener than sharer anyway. But when I write, I feel a freedom that I seldom enjoy in my actual life. When I write, my words transcend the areas where my personality type limits me. I recognize that about myself and I embrace it.

As the afternoon hours went on today, I thought more about these ideas and the thoughts that this friend and I bounced off of each other. This idea of feeling vulnerable. And for me, I’ve decided that I’ll feel less afraid if I articulate my fears and identify them. Because the known is always so much less scary than the unknown anyway, and to lay out the factors that make me feel vulnerable will be half the battle towards conquering them.

So, here I go. The biggest factor that makes me feel vulnerable is not knowing who’s reading my posts. Is it an estranged family member? A no-longer-a-friend? A friend who isn’t really my friend? A naysayer who just doesn’t think I’m good enough to write? And the truth of the matter is, it doesn’t matter. None of these people will harm me by reading what I have to say. Because the truth is, they’re here for a reason, too. Whether they are hoping to see me slip up and ‘talk’ about them or clicking their tongue at my life choices or frowning at my happiness is irrelevant to me. It doesn’t change who I am or what I’m motivated to write about. It doesn’t change my ability to resonate or my commitment to sharing my life in an authentic way. And it certainly won’t stop me from pressing on. I am not here to talk badly about anyone or expose anyone’s secrets or make anyone look bad. I can’t and I won’t do any of that, so I guess I just want to publicly say that no one needs to worry about that. See? I feel better already.

Another idea that tugs me back is the thought that I’m sharing too much, being too real or making people uncomfortable. I know that I’ve lived a lot of life in my 38 years and been through some stuff that many could not really relate to or wrap their minds around. But so what? Each of us carries burdens and albatrosses. It’s how we tackle them and face them that matters anyway, so why not find catharsis in sharing our struggles? Every day I’ll battle this demon of ‘Am I sharing too much?’ and every night I’ll fall asleep feeling proud that I did. It’s a tango that I’ll just have to get used to, even if it drives me batty sometimes. Writing and sharing my heart is a give and take like none other, and I’m proud to be taking a chance on it. My soul needs to write and I’d like to think there are some souls that need to read it.

So that’s about it. All of that to say two things: 1. I’m a lucky girl to have friends in my corner who support me, stick up for me, keep me real and keep me grounded, and 2. The risk of feeling vulnerable is par for the course in whatever the hell I think I’m trying to do here, so I just have to make room for it. I have to let it pull up a chair and sit judgingly in the corner, because at the end of the day, even that pushes me to be a better writer. And as my nails tap, tap, tap on my keyboard, I hear that crazy fool’s voice less anyway…