The Fear I Conquered
On the surface, I’ve always been the person who could walk into a room, flash a confident smile, and charm strangers with ease. People assume I’m fearless—unbothered, unshaken. And while it’s true I’ve conquered some pretty daunting challenges (hello, coming out in rural Texas before Beyoncé dropped Lemonade), I’ve always kept one fear in a tight little box. That fear? Vulnerability. The real, rip-your-chest-open-and-let-someone-see-your-soul kind of vulnerability. All my life, I tiptoed around it, hoping no one would notice just how much I was doing to avoid being seen too clearly. But, as I learned, the heart doesn’t do tiptoeing for long—it demands to be heard.
So, there I was: a grown man in my 30s holding onto a fear that I thought I had under control. Of course, the universe had other plans.
Hiding Behind the Cool-Guy Persona
Let me backtrack for a moment. Growing up in a small Texas town, I learned how to mask early on. In a place where toughness was celebrated as much as Friday night football, I figured being “too open” wasn’t really an option for a Black queer kid. Vulnerability didn’t look safe, so I leaned into humor, aloofness, and the occasional “too cool for feelings” act. Think Will Smith as the Fresh Prince, but with slightly worse outfits.
Even as I grew older, stepped into my queerness, moved to bigger cities, and found communities that embraced me, that armor stuck with me. Sure, I could talk about racial inequality or LGBTQ+ advocacy with ease. But ask me why a relationship ended or how I felt about someone? I’d hit you with a joke faster than Issa Rae in a season of Insecure. Vulnerability asked for too much: too much honesty, too much rawness, too much potential for rejection.
And then I met him.
The Moment Everything Got Real
“Catch me after work?” the text read.
Normally, I’d be unbothered by something that simple. But when it came from Andre, the man who made my palms sweat and my playlist tragically heavy on vintage Luther Vandross, it felt like reading Morse code while my heart tried to escape my chest.
Andre was a teacher like me, whip-smart and with this wry sense of humor that would come out of nowhere and leave you laughing. From the jump, it was easy talking to him—easy enough for me to let my guard down more than I ever had. I found myself admitting things I wasn’t “supposed” to, like how I cried after Oprah’s Maya Angelou tribute or how I secretly love watching HGTV renovation shows while indulging in a whole sleeve of vanilla wafers.
But as things got deeper between us, that pesky little fear surfaced. Vulnerability whispered, “Don’t let him see the ugly parts, the insecurities, the not-so-perfect parts of you. Hide that stuff—you’re supposed to keep things light!”
One evening, Andre told me he was falling for me. Y’all, it was one of those movie moments: music swelled (okay, in my head), and the air felt electric. But while he bared his soul, all I could muster was a joke about how he must have been drinking the wrong wine. Once again, fear won.
Facing Fear in the Mirror
I knew I had to get my act together. Here I was, writing essays about self-love and preaching authenticity to other people, but I couldn’t do the same in my own love life. The hypocrisy hit me harder than a southern summer heatwave.
So, one night, I got out my journal—the same one I usually used to scribble down ideas for stories—and started writing. On one side of the page, I listed the things that scared me about being vulnerable: rejection, judgment, things falling apart. On the other side, I listed what I wanted in love: connection, intimacy, growth. Seeing the contrast in black and white was a wake-up call.
Fear had been convincing me that rejection was the worst-case scenario. But the real risk? Missing out on real connection because I was too busy hiding.
The Steps I Took to Conquer It
Old habits die hard, but let me tell you, fear backed down when I did two things:
-
Named My Emotions Out Loud
I started practicing honesty in smaller interactions, naming emotions I’d usually dodge. “I’m actually a little nervous about this conversation” or “I feel really happy when you say that.” It was awkward at first—like trying to dance in new shoes—but it got easier. -
Stopped Equating Vulnerability with Weakness
Growing up, I saw vulnerability as something to avoid because it made you an easy target. But the truth? Vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s courage in its purest form. Sharing your fears, your hopes, your dreams shows strength because you’re willing to let someone in despite the risks.
The Night I Let Love In
A couple of weeks after my journal wake-up call, I invited Andre over for dinner. By now, I’d worked up the courage to bring the real me to the table—less cool-guy persona, more the awkward guy who once tried to impress a date by singing Beyoncé’s “Love on Top” at karaoke (and failed spectacularly).
Over candlelight and chicken marsala, I finally let him in. I told him how I’d been holding back, how being vulnerable terrified me, but how much I wanted to face that fear for him—for us.
His response? “I already knew. I’m just glad you’re finally here with me.”
Lessons in Love and Courage
If you’ve been skimming this article—first of all, rude—but here’s the TL;DR: Fear feeds on avoidance, and vulnerability brings fear into the light. Sure, stepping into that vulnerability is uncomfortable, but it’s also where the magic happens.
Here’s what I want you to take away from my story:
- Vulnerability is a muscle: The more you flex it, the stronger you get. Start small and work your way up.
- Rejection isn’t the end: It hurts, but it also teaches you who deserves to be in your life.
- You deserve connection: The real, messy, imperfect kind. Choose the people who choose all of you, not just the shiny bits.
I still have moments when vulnerability tries to take the back seat. But now, I remind myself that love and connection grow in that scary place where the walls come down. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my journey, it’s this: It’s okay to be seen. In fact, it’s beautiful.
So, to whoever’s reading this and holding onto a fear like mine? It’s time to let someone in—and yes, they’re worth it. And more importantly, so are you.
