Vulnerability: finding our communities of healing

The topic of vulnerability has been on my mind and heart in recent weeks and months, as it seems to be popping up everywhere around me lately.  (A message, God?)  My friend from college, Trinity, who writes a wonderful, heart-wrenchingly open, inspiring blog, has been recently discussing how to start a vulnerability revolution.  We've all been dealt very different lots in life, but all of us are broken in some way.  We are human beings, imperfect by nature.  And most of us work so hard to hide our imperfections and our struggles, rather than letting our brokenness be revealed.

Which is kind of a catastrophe for all of us.  Because real beauty can be found in brokenness.

In a church we have been visiting for the past several months, the pastor spoke a few weeks back on vulnerability.  He said to love at all, is to be vulnerable; to be broken.  The pastor said that for most of us, one of our greatest fears is the fear of being vulnerable...

He said, if only we had the courage to show up and let ourselves be seen, that maybe we would develop communities of healing instead of communities that fight in fear.  

Communities of healing.  To really heal, we must first have the courage to allow ourselves to be broken.

Brene Brown, in her TED talk on the Power of Vulnerability, also talks about the importance of letting ourselves be seen.  (If you have never seen this, I beg you to watch.  She has done some life-changing research in this area, and presents some of it here).

As the topic surrounds me, I have been inspired to cultivate my own thoughts more deeply and meditate on this concept of vulnerability, reflecting on my own experiences.... and I think I've come to four theoretical points that are applicable, at least for me.

1) You have to believe that your feelings are valid and worthy of sharing. 

Brene Brown says that "people who have a strong sense of love and belonging, BELIEVE that they are worthy of love and belonging."  And, "The one thing that keeps us out of connection is our fear that we are not worthy of connection."  

Somewhere along the line during my childhood/adolescence/growing up, I developed the perception that there was little time, space for, or validity to, my feelings.  I started to focus instead on the feelings of others, and deemed them more important than my own.  I remember occasionally having these ridiculous outbursts of emotion, when I couldn't contain my feelings any longer in a particular situation.  I lacked a healthy way of expressing them, and didn't have much guidance in navigating the great sea of feelings that were washing over me.  I still struggle sometimes with the notion that my feelings are not as valid or worthy or important as those of others.  Or that I can contain/manage them on my own.  Or that if I open myself a little, the flood gates will come crashing down and that no one will want to deal with that.  These things often keep me from sharing my more difficult emotions, and as a result, from experiencing real vulnerability and intimacy/connection.  All things that I should probably address in therapy.  Which means, I should probably start going to therapy.  

2)  Being vulnerable is hard. And so is figuring out just how vulnerable we're supposed to be.

Most of us run like wild hyenas at the thought of being vulnerable with someone else.  The thought of being exposed.  Of not being in control.  Of ourselves and our emotions.  It can be terrifying.  Many of us fill our lives with all kinds of things that distract us or help us to avoid our feelings:  working too much; drinking too much; prescription pills and other drugs; eating too much or eating too little;  extremely busy schedules with activities/events/so many things to do, etc.  But we all have problems and pain... and we need to allow ourselves, somehow, to be present with this instead of denying or running or distracting or pushing the pain away.  That being said, I'm not sure that living in a CONSTANT state of vulnerability is supposed to be maintained.  I believe that there are times to be wide open and to feel what we feel, and there are times to power through and to keep moving (with acceptance, not denial).   Both of these things take courage - in different ways.  Finding the right balance is hard.  I think that remaining in a state of constant vulnerability could be debilitating for some people.  And remaining in a state of constant stoicism is not healthy, either.  It is necessary to admit our feelings, to acknowledge them... to accept them, in order to resolve them.  And it is necessary to move on from them.  To move forward, somehow, out of our pain.  Different people will accomplish this in different ways, and in different times.  And some of us need to go back and deal with unresolved pain, or it can unconsciously affect how we live our lives. 

3) There is a real fear of overburdening others (who have their own sets of problems and pain).

My best friends and I call this phase of life that we are in the "dirty thirties."  Huge shifts in identity taking place (which always involves loss), and many difficult situations that we couldn't have imagined when we were in our (much more carefree) twenties.  The stress of raising young children, the huge weight of expanding responsibilities, the devastation of unexpected traumas, painful losses through divorce and death and infertility, facing the mortality of our parents as they age and suffer illness, medical problems, financial concerns, career struggles, etc.  Tough stuff... and everyone is going through something.  Or multiple things.  So I worry a lot about sharing my heart with those who are already hurting, as I don't want to give them more burden.  More weight.  This is another thing that keeps me from being vulnerable with people who I care about.

4) Not everyone or every place is meant to be a safe space.   

We have to know and understand which people and which situations are going to be supportive and healthy for us to open ourselves to.   Otherwise, if we let our guard down and someone (whether intentional or unintentional) doesn't handle it well, it can be very damaging.  We may close off and have a very hard time opening up again.  For some of us, ever.  So it is important to know ourselves, and to know which people and places are "safe spaces" for our hearts.  For being vulnerable/practicing vulnerability.  For some, it's a therapist.  For some, it's a pastor/priest/rabbi/religious person.  For some, it's a close friend or family member or partner.  For some people, it's not a person, but a place or a community - like church, or yoga, or AA, or performing on a stage, or writing. And for some, it's a spiritual/religious figure - like God - that they feel comfortable letting themselves be completely vulnerable with.   For me, two safe spaces that immediately come to mind are my husband (who I allow to see some, but not all), and when I'm alone, on my knees before God.  

For these four reasons and probably others, I often struggle with allowing myself to be truly vulnerable. I had a conversation with one of my best friends recently, who told me that sometimes she is not sure how to love me, or care for me well.  It took a lot of courage for her to share these feelings, and it really had an impact on me.  I'm so grateful for her.  We had a wonderful conversation about vulnerability and how we both struggle with it.  And how sometimes it's the hardest thing in the world to say, "Hey, I'm not really okay.  I'm hurting." Or "I'm struggling. And I need help."  Even to our best friends.  Such simple words, yet so complex to get around our own brains and pride and fears to get them out.

I am realizing that writing is helping me to be more openly expressive with my feelings.  It is giving me  the space and liberty to explore different parts of my life and topics that are important to me.  I am finding it to be a helpful medium, to practice being more candid, more real, and more free discussing some of the things that I wrestle with or that lay on my heart.  And, it is still terrifying.

I have felt more vulnerable in the past year of writing in this blog, than I have in a long time.  This blog is helping me to pursue vulnerability;  to learn about the crooked path that leads me to myself, and to work through some things in the process.  

Why do that in a public forum, rather than a personal journal?  You might ask.

Because... I am trying to have the courage to show up, and to let myself be seen.  And because I am hoping, that in doing so, I might connect with others in some way and contribute to a community of healing.

A community of brokenness, and of beautifully broken people.

A community of honesty.

A community of hope.  

All things considered, this post is both a meditation on the topic of vulnerability, and an exercise in vulnerability for me (as most of them are).  One year later, I am so grateful for this writing/blogging journey.  This chipping down and stripping away, little by little, of the things that I have built up around myself in order to avoid being vulnerable.  And I want to say thank you to those who take the time to read these words.   Thank you for supporting me with your presence, and participating in my community.

   

Living with our 2 year-old/Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

A child is a curly, dimpled, lunatic. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Today was a hard day.  At this current moment, I stay home with my daughter two days per week (and I work the other three days).  I cherish my time with her always, and typically we have a good time together.  Of course there are always challenges, but the ebb and flow is usually quite manageable.  But the last 4 months or so, things have been getting much more interesting (aka, tantrum central).  This morning began with a fight to brush teeth, a fight to change a diaper, a fight to get dressed, and then a fight to eat breakfast.  And that was just the beginning.  I was so hopeful for a good day, as yesterday's report from the grandparents was that Hazel was very pleasant all day.  She ate well, she took a 3 hour-nap, and was overall in a happy mood.  No reported difficulty or wild tantrum-like behavior.  

She apparently saves all of her Mr. Hyde-ness for me and our days at home together.   Which is my preference, but still.  Phew.

The day before yesterday, Easter Sunday, began with perhaps one of the biggest tantrums to date (of course, on a day when we have somewhere to be - church - with the whole family).  And sometimes it's the smallest things that trigger the tantrum.  Like cutting a bagel to the appropriate size for a two-year old to eat.  "BACK ON!!!  BACK ON!!!!"  She screamed.  (Which means, put the bagel parts back together.  Seal it back up with imaginary glue so I can hold the giant bagel and drop it on the floor several times).  From that point on, it just went downhill.  The screaming, the crying, the refusing to eat anything else.  Then the refusing to let us change her diaper.  Refusing to get dressed for church.  And so on.  We try to distract her with other things and then do what needs to be done.  Sometimes this works.  Sometimes it doesn't, and things evolve into a full-on tantrum and then us physically forcing her to change her diaper/get dressed/brush teeth, what have you.  It's not pretty.

Fighting and forcing are not words that previously existed in my vocabulary before parenthood.   At all.  I do not love doing it.  (This is an understatement).  It is exhausting.  Both physically and emotionally.  

Most of today involved fighting and forcing.  But then, there were these moments of loveliness smooshed in between the struggle.  Dr. Jekyll came back and made a few appearances.  We went out to lunch, and when we walked in the door Hazel said "Hi!" very sweetly to the hostesses.  They beamed at her, and Hazel followed enthusiastically to our table.     She even ordered her own meal.  The server came over and Hazel said confidentially and seriously, "Grilled cheese, please."  It was hilarious and adorable.  So grown up.  2 going on 12.

And then after lunch, she proceeded to run wildly through a busy parking lot, refusing to hold my hand.  And when I told her, sternly, that she needed to hold my hand or I would carry her, she just wriggled away and ran off.  I swooped her up and carried her to the car, screaming.   A tantrum ensued, and I had to physically lay on top of her to get her into her car seat and buckled up.  It took quite some time, and is no easy task for a lady who is 7 months pregnant (this is another understatement).   I kept looking around, wondering if someone might be trying to call Child Protective Services.   I was prepared to defend myself.  "I promise she is my child!  I'm not hurting her!  She is a toddler!"  That should explain it.

2 going on 12, going on 2.

We get home, and things don't get much better.  Nap time: fight.  Dinnertime: fight.  And according to the book on discipline that I am currently reading, it is important for parents to not get emotional.  To stay neutral and firm.  So I do that.  But I tell you, not reacting to an emotional child emotionally, is HARD.  I completely understand now why moms or dads who stay home with young children are so eager for happy hour to arrive.  "Is it five o'clock yet???  How about four?!?"  Because their nerves are frayed completely and need a little something to relax.  Even on a good day, I love a glass of wine.  I unfortunately (currently) cannot partake in happy hour as a coping tool on these hard days.  Or for a while to come, because I plan on breastfeeding this baby, too.  Maybe I should rethink that, with a 2 year-old to take care of at the same time... nah.  I jest.  But life without wine these days can be brutal.

There is no happy ending to this post, or way to tie up the message with a pretty bow.  Sometimes, parenting young kids is just hard.  The day ended with forcing a screaming child into bed.  And then crying in my hot shower.  I know this is a temporary phase, and things will get better.  I know all parents must go through it.  I know every child is different, each child's temperament is different, and each age group is different.  And these challenging behaviors are developmentally normal. (Terrible twos, anyone?) And I'm trying not to feel like a failure as a mom because we had a rough day.  Discipline is tough for me, and sometimes being consistent is the hardest thing to do when I'm worn down on all sides.  But I know it's what we have to do; what we have to strive for.  We sometimes have to fight and force and do the difficult dance.  Pick our battles?  Absolutely.  Assessing and negotiating what we must be firm on and what we can let slide, is a demanding, constant facet of parenting.  And some days, I am better at it than others.  

It's just the way it goes.  And I still have so much to learn.  So much.  For now, I'm doing my best.

All things considered, knowing that we are not alone in the universal world of parenting, makes days like these a bit easier to swallow.    

So here's to all the moms and dads, crying in the shower, doing the dance, and fighting to raise the best tiny humans that you can.

I'm with you.