“You’re not too sensitive. You’re not overreacting. If it hurts you, it hurts you.” – Unknown
I used to lie to myself and others that I was fine and stronger than I think I am. I did this perhaps as a way to keep myself together. At least I thought I needed to keep myself together. I can’t remember when I started thinking and feeling that being vulnerable is wrong and a sign of weakness. The context I lived in naturally embedded this idea into my mind and body, so I didn’t question it at first.
Maybe it was in high school when I felt like sharing what I go through with others would help create a stronger bond. For me, opening myself to others and showing them my emotions would mean the other person would understand that I trust them and want to become closer.
I hit many walls doing that, and my peers’ reactions only reinforced my fear of being open about what I felt. “You are too sensitive, you cry too much,” is what I got to hear a lot. So I started questioning whether I did feel too much. Was I too sensitive? Did other people really experience reality so differently? Did they feel less? If yes, how could I become like them?
The need for acceptance
As a teen, I needed to feel included and accepted more than I needed to learn how to accept myself. I also needed to assume a label to shape my identity, and I didn’t want that label to be “too sensitive.” I needed to be like everyone else, and everyone else didn’t seem vulnerable. In fact, they pretended to be OK so well that I genuinely believed there must be something wrong with me.
I began to reject being vulnerable unconsciously, but vulnerability encapsulated many things, and many contexts could put you into a vulnerable position. For example, stating a need, like asking your friend to pay more attention to you. Or expressing what you don’t like; how do you tell your family you don’t like what you’ve got for your birthday?
Whenever I tried to communicate something that could put me in a weak position, I would overthink how I should speak and how the reaction I would receive would make me feel. All that overthinking would often lead to not saying anything at all. The pressure was too much, and even after expressing myself, I would still overthink and feel viscerally bad and guilty.
On the other hand, I sometimes experienced aversion and frustration towards myself for being vulnerable. I’m referring here to moments where there was no danger of being judged by others because of it. It was just like an automatic reaction of not wanting to accept my mental state as it was, due to my idea that “vulnerability is bad.”
There was no clear line of what happened due to external factors—such as the need to appear to others in a certain way—or internal motivations. The “external” was at some point, internalized.
The meditation group that helped me
Later in my twenties, I came across a meditation group online. I decided to participate because I was curious and maybe unconsciously hoped to find something there that would help me detach. I didn’t know much about meditation or how many types of meditation there are. I had a vague, cliched idea about what meditation should be and how you should empty your mind while practicing. However, I learned a lot about myself in a couple of months of group mindfulness practice.
I learned a lot about myself in a couple of months of group mindfulness practice.
I started to explore the many sides and layers of pain. I understood that what I felt as weakness or vulnerability was a form of pain. And it was not one block of pain, as I thought.
Learning how to look at my experience and how my mind and body influence each other made me aware of the extra painful layers I’ve been adding to my existence. You feel like you want to cry. Then you pile another layer on top of that by thinking you should not be crying, you don’t have a “real” reason to be sad, and you experience aversion towards that side of yourself that you do not feel comfortable accepting.
Then you can continue by adding more and more layers. And practicing self-observation through meditation helps you feel the distinction between the mental discomfort you feel, the physical discomfort, and the way your thoughts and body get looped in a circle of influencing each other to feel more pain, thus more vulnerability.
This may seem like basic information about meditation for someone who has practiced it for a couple of years, but for me, at that time, it was mind-blowing. It was a first step towards reconnecting with emotions, with that “me” who knew how to let myself be weak.
Allow yourself to feel
I don’t think I’m in a position to give advice to others or to say there’s no room for improvement in my growth journey. But allowing myself to feel whatever I experience in the present is the kindest lesson I’ve learned from my trials and errors. And it is definitely the hardest.
I sometimes like to imagine I am a tree during my meditation sessions. My roots are deep and stable in the ground. I sit still and observe what I feel. My branches move along with the wind or are gently brushed by it. The surroundings are constantly changing; people come and go, the cars are loud and birds take a rest on me.
I feel vulnerable when the storm comes, and that is OK. It’s still a frightening experience, but I practice accepting it as it is. For me, it’s what works, and I hope it will be helpful for others as well.
Observing and staying still in one uncomfortable state. Getting to know it better, to recognize when it installs itself in your mind and body. Not labelling what you feel as good or bad. These are all the things I try to do, so as not to add an extra layer of pain on top of my vulnerability.
When the storm comes, I feel vulnerable, but I know my roots are deep in the ground and my branches can touch the sky, and that gives me strength and confidence.
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image 1 liggraphy from Pixabay 2 image by Med Ahabchane from Pixabay 3 image by Steve Buissinne from Pixabay
