026 when softness hurts

They say there is power in vulnerability, but what they do not say is how much it can truly ache.

Lately, I have been thinking about vulnerability. Not the curated kind we see online, but the real thing. The kind that trembles. The kind that leaves you exposed, heart first, with no guarantee that it will be met. There is power in showing up, unarmored and emotionally honest, and yes, it is brave. But bravery does not come without risk. Vulnerability opens us up not only to connection but also to hurt, misunderstanding, and criticism.

So if vulnerability is so powerful, why does it so often feel like a weakness?

When our openness is met with silence or, worse, dismissal, it does not feel brave. It feels naive. There is a particular kind of pain that comes not from being rejected, but from realizing that someone could not hold what we offered. And suddenly, what felt like an act of intimacy becomes a mirror, reflecting all the ways we long to feel understood and all the ways we are not.

So I began to wonder if the power of vulnerability lies not in how it is received but in the radical act of offering it. There is quiet resistance in saying, "This is me, in all of my softness," in a world that often rewards detachment and control over compassion and empathy. Vulnerability invites connection, but it also invites uncertainty. It asks us to trust that even when we are not received the way we hope to be, we are still intact. We are still whole.

There was a time when I believed vulnerability was a bridge to another person. Now I wonder if that bridge has always been meant to lead us back to ourselves. A way of affirming that we are capable of love, of feeling deeply, of choosing truth even when it is not safe. Even when it hurts.

So maybe the ache of vulnerability is not a sign of weakness. Maybe it is a sign that we are still here, still choosing honesty over pretense, still honoring the parts of us that long for closeness. And maybe, just maybe, that is what makes us strong in the end.