Vulnerability is one of those things we talk about like it’s beautiful and inspiring — which it is —
but let’s tell the truth:
In the beginning, vulnerability feels terrifying. Unnatural. Unsafe.
For those of us who grew up in chaos, survived trauma, lived in addiction, or spent years using masks to survive, vulnerability isn’t just uncomfortable — it feels dangerous. It’s the opposite of what we were conditioned to do.
We learned early on that hiding was safer than revealing.
That silence was safer than honesty.
That performing was safer than being known.
That disappearing was safer than taking up space.
So when we start healing, and recovery asks us to begin opening up, showing who we actually are, letting people see our hearts, our wounds, our needs?
It feels like standing in the open without armor.
And that’s why we need to normalize this truth:
Vulnerability isn’t something you master.
It’s something you practice.
Over and over again.
Many of us learned early on that who we were wasn’t acceptable.
Too emotional.
Too intense.
Too needy.
Too much.
Not enough.
So we adapted.
We hid.
We performed.
We controlled.
We walled off the fragile parts of ourselves so no one could hurt them.
Add addiction into that mix, and vulnerability becomes nearly impossible — because addiction thrives in secrecy and shame.
So when recovery invites us to be seen, it’s asking us to do something we were never taught how to do.
That means learning vulnerability will feel clumsy.
Shaky.
Exposed.
That’s not failure.
That’s rewiring.
Here’s what has helped me most in practicing vulnerability:
Knowing Whose I am, and who I am.
Because when shame starts crawling up my spine, whispering old lies like:
“You’re too much.”
“You’re a problem.”
“You’re going to get rejected.”
“If they really knew you…”
—I need a deeper anchor.
I go back to the One who names me.
Loved.
Chosen.
Redeemed.
Seen.
Known.
Held.
That grounding is what gives me the courage to stay present instead of shutting down or disappearing into old patterns.
When my chest tightens and fear rises, I repeat the verses that have become my battle cry — my fight verses.
These aren’t magic phrases.
They are reminders.
Anchors.
Steady ground when shame tries to pull me back under.
Here’s what I’m learning:
Vulnerability doesn’t mean telling everyone everything.
It means being honest where honesty matters.
It means showing up without false versions of yourself.
It means letting yourself be known in the places that are safe and sacred.
It means staying present when your instinct is to hide.
Some days I do this well.
Some days I still want to run.
Some days my instinct is to disappear or pretend I’m fine or go numb.
But vulnerability is a practice.
The more I do it, the easier it becomes.
And every time I stay honest — even in a small way — I reclaim a piece of myself that shame stole.
When I practice vulnerability, something beautiful happens:
I get to see that I’m not alone.
Others begin to share their stories too.
Connection deepens.
Community strengthens.
Healing expands.
The very thing I feared — being seen — becomes the doorway to the thing I always longed for:
real connection.
And slowly, vulnerability shifts from threat to invitation.
An invitation to be known.
To be loved.
To be human.
To belong.
This week, choose one small way to practice vulnerability:
- Tell a trusted friend how you’re actually feeling.
- Let someone help you instead of saying, “I’m fine.”
- Admit a fear you usually hide.
- Share your truth in a safe space without editing or performing.
Just one step.
One moment.
One honest choice.
And when shame whispers, return to your anchor — the truth of Whose you are, and who you are.
Radiant Redemption 
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