I used to think fear was a necessary part of life—like bad haircuts, heartbreak, or Maine winters without a decent pair of snow boots. You accept it, work around it, and sometimes barely scrape through. But one unassuming summer afternoon last year, I decided to confront a fear that had followed me like a persistent seagull eyeing my lobster roll. For me, that fear was vulnerability in relationships—the kind where you put yourself out there, no life vest, no backup plan, no perfectly edited script of what might happen next.

Here’s how I faced it, one shaky step at a time, with all the messy, awkward, and hilariously human missteps that came along the way.

The Fear That Set Anchor

Long before I had a clue what being “emotionally available” meant (and not in the way every rom-com makes it look glamourous), vulnerability made me squirm. It was less about drama or trauma and more about a deeply ingrained Yankee practicality: toughen up, Charlotte. You don’t share every longing, every joy, every unfiltered thought. You keep the deck tidy, rainproof, and firmly battened down for storms that might—or might not—arrive.

As a kid, I perfected the charming art of deflective humor. Emotional sharings? I’d rather debate the historical accuracy of Nathaniel Bowditch’s The American Practical Navigator (a nautical tome for maritime nerds like yours truly). Spilling my guts felt as implausible as the moment in Titanic when Rose willingly lets go of Jack’s hand—WHY, Rose? The door was big enough!

This instinct to dodge deep connection followed me into adulthood. Friendships? Sure, but only up to a point. Relationships? Just so long as they stayed under the "feelings radar." And yet, as with all things we avoid the most, life has a sly way of slipping them under your doorstep, kind of like the way that neighbor down the road leaves you surprise zucchini mid-summer. (Why is it always zucchini?)

Waves of Realization: The Moment I Knew It Had to Change

They say no one lights the lighthouse until there’s a storm, and for me, the warning bells started ringing during a date I almost didn’t even accept. It was a balmy July evening—one of those rare Maine days where the sky looks like a Turner painting and the breeze smells like wild roses and salt spray. My date, Matthew, had planned an elaborate twilight picnic. There was wine, cheese, and a sudden and alarming level of sweetness in his questions:

“So, Charlotte—or should I call you Char?—what inspires you most when you’re writing?”

Oh. No.

This was way too personal. Couldn’t we stay safely in the realm of far-off lighthouses or the delights of smoked mussels? My throat scrambled to form a deflection—some breezy comment, a witty remark. Anything to avoid answering with honesty.

And that’s when subtly, like the quiet hum of a foghorn, it hit me: I wasn’t afraid of Matthew. I was afraid of feeling seen. My refusal to open up was sabotaging one connection after another—not just in love, but with family, friends, and even myself.

I wish I could say this epiphany changed me overnight. But as anyone who’s ever reluctantly hosted a family of wayward seagulls in their backyard will tell you, change is messy and gradual. You can only shoo those birds one snack at a time.

Small Acts of Bravery—Without Anyone Promising Smooth Sailing

So, I started small. Here’s what I learned—you can’t conquer fear all at once. Instead, you practice cracking the door open to your deeper self little by little. Here are the strategies that helped me (and yes, feel free to try them with your own overstuffed emotional lockers):

  • Start with your own reflection. Seriously, take a day to swim through the mental sea of your own emotional baggage. Journaling became my lifeline—no one judged my bad metaphors, and I couldn’t deflect questions in the privacy of my leather-bound notebook.

  • Be human, on purpose. Vulnerability, I discovered, doesn’t have to manifest as baring your soul in dramatic monologues à la Shakespeare (or his modern counterpart, Taylor Swift). Instead, it might start as a small act: admitting you’re nervous on a first date, calling a friend just to say you miss them, or laughing about the time your bread recipe turned into something vaguely brick-shaped.

  • Understand it doesn’t have to be pretty. My first attempt at emotional honesty was a lurching, imperfect mess. On date number two with Matthew, I told him flat-out I had a hard time "doing feelings," which somehow came out sounding more like a job interview weakness than a confession. But the remarkable thing was this: he didn’t bolt. And neither did I.

  • Celebrate small wins. Every moment you share, even something tiny and seemingly insignificant—like admitting your childhood dream was to become a sea captain in pigtails—is a victory. It’s not about the grandiose moments. It’s about the quiet, steady unspooling of the knots you’ve tied too tight.

From Stormy Seas to Clearer Waters

Over time, being vulnerable became less daunting—though not necessarily easier. There were multiple moments when I thought, What if I let someone in, only to watch them walk away? Romantic comedy rules didn’t comfort me in those vulnerable spaces; instead, life reassured me that every risk would be worth every ounce of transformation.

The truth is, change is its own reward. Vulnerability didn’t just soften my approach to relationships; it brightened my overall way of seeing and being seen. It allowed me to embrace the ridiculous beauty of human nature: the awkward first kisses, the hard-won trust, the quiet strength of someone choosing to wear their whole glorious complexity out loud.

As for Matthew? The guy who lured me to the edge of my emotional comfort zone with organic brie and twinkling sincerity? We’ve been together ever since. He taught me that shared vulnerability doesn’t mean you’re tethered—it means you’ve dropped anchor together, steadying each other in the surging waves.

Riding Out Fear—and Letting It Guide You

So here’s the thing: fear doesn’t fade away completely. Even after all this, I still get the occasional pang of dread when someone gets too close or asks me a too-pointed question: What’s something you regret? Who do you want to become? How often do you sing along to ABBA when no one’s around?

But now I remind myself: fear is part of everything beautiful and worthwhile. Seeing it as a guide instead of an obstacle has made all the difference. It whispers, This matters. It asks you to try.

If there’s something you’re afraid of in your own life—whether it’s letting someone in or something entirely different—let this be your pep talk: Start small. Try anyway. Leave room for the goofy missteps and the wildly unexpected breakthroughs. Because just like the ocean I’ve called home all my life, growth is vast, unpredictable, stormy, and stunning. And in it, you’ll find joy you never thought you’d have the courage to seek.

So go ahead, take the leap. The water—though daunting—is always worth it.