Fear is a funny thing. It sneaks up on you in the quiet moments, like a skittish deer stepping out from the pines at dusk. You think you’re calm—just out for a stroll—but then, there it is. It could be anything. For me, it’s not wild animals (I’ve been face-to-face with enough elk and coyotes to keep my cool). It’s not storms or loneliness or even public speaking, though all of those rank slightly above stepping barefoot into a bathroom puddle in terms of discomfort. What really gets me? Vulnerability. Emotional, bare-your-soul, no-turning-back-tenderness.

And yet, here’s the catch: I do it anyway. I crack myself open, piece by piece, like trying to get the last bit of honey out of a stubborn jar. Why? Because I’ve learned that the moments when our knees are knocking, voices shaking, and hearts pounding—I mean, truly alive—those are the moments that matter most.

Let’s unpack that, shall we? (I promise, there’s a point to this beyond a minor existential meltdown.)

The Buckle-Kneed Brutality of Dating

Let me introduce you to High School Willow: frizzy-haired, horse-obsessed, and fully convinced love was reserved for people who didn’t have hay in their ponytails by noon. My first crush? A boy who once helped me wrangle a runaway colt. Naturally, I was certain we were destined for a sweeping romance straight out of a Nicholas Sparks novel—cue galloping horses, me in a prairie dress, him…probably avoiding me because I hadn’t invited him into this daydream.

The thing about dating, whether you’re fifteen and scribbling in a notebook under a cottonwood tree or thirty-something navigating adult relationships, is how vulnerable it makes you. You look at someone and think, Do they see me? The real me, messy and hopeful and alive? The scary part isn’t when the answer’s “no”—you can dust yourself off from that. It’s when the answer might be “yes.” That’s when the stakes feel sky-high, like my first time white-knuckling a trail ride along a steep ridgeline. One misstep, and it feels like there’s a lot more to lose.

But at some point, you’ve got to take your boots out of the stirrups, shuffle down the mountainside, and keep on trekking. Vulnerability isn’t something you get better at per se. It just becomes more familiar, like catching your reflection in a deep, clear stream—startling but strangely beautiful.

Fear? Meet FOMO

Let’s fast-forward. I’m older now, theoretically wiser, and definitely less concerned about dirt under my fingernails. Yet fear still bites at my heels when it comes to connection. A few years back, someone asked me: “If it scares you so much, why put yourself out there at all?”

Reader, I didn’t break into a TED Talk here, but let me summarize how I’ve learned to answer this question over time: because not doing it is scarier. Walking away from a connection because I don’t want to feel exposed? That’s like letting the river run dry because I’m too scared to dip my toe in. Sure, my feet stay warm, but I lose the chance to swim. You can’t know what’s waiting—the grace, the delight, the joy—if you don’t risk the plunge.

Even now, after years of practicing honesty and stumbling into deep, meaningful relationships, I still feel the sting of rejection sometimes. It could be something big—a breakup that left me staring out over the Gallatin Valley, reckoning with how certain I’d been about that love—or something small like a misunderstanding with someone I care about. In those moments of vulnerability, I sometimes catch myself wanting to retreat into the wide, silent expanses of home. But I resist, because that isn’t where life—the gritty, electric, heart-pounding kind of living—happens.

So, How Do You Do It Anyway?

Enough about me; let’s talk about us. How do we, as imperfect people, do the thing that terrifies us most? How do we lean into discomfort instead of running faster than a spooked mustang at dusk? Here’s what I’ve learned on my own bumpy trail:

  1. Check Your Fear’s Credentials
    Nine times out of ten, fear’s a bad GPS. Sure, it wants to protect you, but it’ll also convince you that every rustling branch is a cougar. Before you panic, ask yourself: Is this fear grounded? What’s the worst-case scenario here? Spoiler: it’s almost never as bad as your brain claims.

  2. Call It Like It Is
    Vulnerability is terrifying because it’s real. Saying, “I love you” without knowing what you’ll hear back? That’s the emotional version of stepping into chest-deep snow without a trail in sight. Give your fear a name. Say it out loud. Somehow, that makes it shrink a little.

  3. Start Small, But Start Somewhere
    You don’t climb a mountain by leaping to the summit. Begin with the easy stuff: telling a friend how much their support means to you; sharing a small secret with someone you trust. In love, honesty builds like stacking stones—one deliberate choice at a time.

  4. Embrace the Awkward
    Listen, life is awkward. Being vulnerable will sometimes mean saying or doing the wrong thing, tripping over your words, or revealing your weird obsession with repurposing mason jars. (Just me?) Embrace the imperfection. It’s what makes you captivatingly human.

  5. Remember: You’re Worth the Risk
    Here’s a secret: vulnerability isn’t about what someone else will do with your feelings. It’s about showing up for yourself. When you take those risks, you send an undeniable message: I’m worth the effort it takes to love deeply and authentically. And that? That’s priceless.

The Legacy of Risk

Vulnerability reminds me of an old saddle that’s been in my family for years. Worn leather, scratches from countless trail rides, the kind of broken-in comfort that comes with age and use. It’s not pristine—heck, it’s not even that pretty anymore. But it tells a story of someone unafraid to take the trail, even when it got steep or narrow, even when it poured rain or the wind howled up ahead.

That’s what love looks like to me now. Not shiny, perfect, Disney-movie stuff. Love, real love, is a little weathered. It leaves marks, but those marks carry meaning. Scary as it is to trust someone with your heart, my goodness, when it’s right, it’s worth every ounce of courage you had to muster.

So what scares me most? The same thing, still—a vulnerability that stirs like autumn wind through dry grass. And why do I do it anyway? Because when I don’t, I miss out. On connection, on joy, on becoming someone who weathers the messy, beautiful, often unpredictable storm of love. Sure, it’s terrifying. But it’s also as thrilling as galloping toward the sunset, the wind in your hair, and the ground rushing beneath your feet.

And really, how else would you want to live?