Why Do We Run from Vulnerability?

What I Learned on My Sister's Steps

Illustration by Peter Gehrman

I wrote this post a little over a year ago when I had only been on Substack for a few months. It was one of the hardest to write because it’s very personal, but it’s also one of my favorites. Thank you for reading my work and I’ll be back next week with a new post!

Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it.  Brené Brown

As a psychoanalyst and as someone who’s been a patient, I know how important - and how hard - it is to embrace all parts of ourselves to live authentically.

I came into this world in 1968, loaded with a lot of potential, loving parents, and a pair of eyes with congenital cataracts. I was born legally blind, and all I could see for my first six months was light and dark. I had successful surgery, but missing out on my first six months of vision kept my brain from completing its visual processing development. As a result, I’ve never had good vision or depth perception - which set me up for a rough time growing up in a world where perfect vision was a given.

I compensated with my wit and humor, but deep down, it felt like I wasn’t “as good as.” So, I spent my energy making up for what I thought I lacked. Denial and distraction were my operating models, not owning and accepting. 

And so it went for decades. I worked hard to accept my disability and everything that comes with it. And, although it wasn’t easy, I’ve learned that accepting this part of myself that I didn’t want to face is worth it. Here’s why. 

By accepting these parts of ourselves that make us feel vulnerable, we free up energy. In other words, the energy we’ve used to push down, deny, or downsize our vulnerability is now available to live authentically. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not a “Pollyanna” kind of defense, where you pretend everything is great when it isn’t. Instead, it’s the opposite of a defense - acceptance. Accepting the complexity of the experiences and emotions surrounding our vulnerability. 

The Steps 

Something about a month ago brought this truth into focus for me. 

My sister moved into a house near me, and I stopped by to see her. We chatted over cheese and crackers, and she showed me around her new home, commenting about what art would go where. It was a happy visit. However, on my way out, I realized I couldn’t see the steps leading down from the front porch. So she had to help me navigate them.

The next time I visited her, she ran after me as I was leaving, saying, “Stacey, Stacey, hold on!” 

I knew she had remembered helping me down those steps and was worried about me going down them again. I remember thinking, “F@#k, don’t follow me,” as I didn’t want her to make a big deal of it. But, of course, she didn’t make a fuss, and we both made light of it as she directed me, “Not quite there, a little bit further,” and I made my way down the steps. 

At the bottom, I joked, “Those steps better be gone when I come back!” Humor has always allowed me to regulate my emotions and make others comfortable with my disability.  

We both laughed, but I felt vulnerable at that moment. There was something so raw and touching about my sister’s love mixed with my vulnerability and shame.

I love that my “people” look out for me, but I hate that I must be looked out for in the first place. Growing up in America with our focus on independence and “pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps,” being taken care of by others (physically or emotionally) can be hard. Being taken care of makes me feel like a burden that others are obligated to care for. There’s something dehumanizing about these feelings. It’s like I become a thing (burden) rather than a person (me). A better way to think about it is this: my disability (not me) is the burden or heavy load I carry, and others help me carry it.

But here’s the victory for me. I may always have a twinge of these feelings when I need help. Still, I’m committed to courage and facing these feelings rather than running away. While it can be easy to drop down into the “burden” experience, I can allow myself to feel it and be reminded that I’m still me and worth taking care of. In other words, I can inhabit the complexity of my feelings. 

Buoys

Tapping into the humanness of these feelings is like a buoy that keeps us from sinking into the distorting and diminishing experience of shame.

That night, I talked to my husband about all the feelings I experienced on those steps. He listened like he always does, and I felt understood and loved. That safe space let me embrace this vulnerability rather than sweep it under the rug. A safe place is another buoy.

Our vulnerability can be a huge source of shame if we refuse to own it. What makes us feel vulnerable can be anything and may not be visible to others. It can be an invisible disability, an event from our past, family circumstances, or financial status. Brené Brown calls these “shame triggers.” We’ve all got them. They come in many flavors.  

Questions

Here are a few questions you can ask yourself: 

· What part of your story is hard to embrace and is wrapped in shame?

· What would embracing it as part of your story look like?

· What holds you back from taking it in as part of you - fear of rejection or not fitting in?  

· Are these assumptions based on reality or fear?

Feeling our vulnerability is not for the faint of heart, but when we let ourselves feel it and embrace the vulnerability of others, it makes for a richer, more authentic life.  From the curbside, it may seem that embracing our vulnerability is a weakness, but it actually makes us stronger.