Some pieces feel like they write themselves—fingers flying across the keys as inspiration flows like water from a spring. Others, well, they’re more like trying to squeeze lemonade out of limes you found shriveled at the back of the fridge. That’s what happened when I tackled the hardest piece I’ve ever written. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t some soul-baring essay or a scorching cultural critique. No, it was an unassuming little think piece about love and vulnerability.

Now, don’t get me wrong—writing about love? That’s supposed to be my bread and butter. I’ve waxed poetic about everything from first-date jitters to the intricate art of saying “I’m sorry” to a partner without overcompensating with DoorDash tacos (been there). But this time? This time was different. Let me tell you why.

Vulnerability: The Sweet and the Sour

The piece started out deceptively simple. Write about vulnerability, my editor said. “Hit the usual beats: finding strength in sharing your feelings, breaking down walls, yada yada.” I thought, Easy enough! Vulnerability’s just honesty with a warm hug, right? Right?

Wrong. About three paragraphs into the draft, I realized I was choking on my own advice. I floated out clichés like, “It’s okay to let people in” and “Love means taking risks,” but they rang hollow. It was like trying to make gumbo with stale seasoning; the flavor wasn’t there. Vulnerability, as it turns out, isn’t a concept you can fake your way through.

Now, here’s the thing about me: I’m good at weaving storytelling with advice. It’s one of my superpowers if I do say so myself. But trying to write about vulnerability forced me to confront my own relationship with it. As a gay Black man from a small Texas town, I’ve spent most of my life with my guard up—aspiring to be the lighthouse, not the fragile ship. Vulnerability? That’s for rom-com protagonists or the dudes sobbing on The Bachelorette, right? Not for someone who’s had to fight, hustle, and code-switch his way into every space.

When Writing Gets Personal

The thing about vulnerability is that it doesn’t just knock politely; it kicks the door in. Suddenly, I was rewriting scenes I’d kept locked away. There was the time my best friend caught me sitting in my car crying after my first real breakup. The moment I first told my family I was gay and watched my dad’s usually stoic face soften, then shift into something I can only describe as “processing.” Or last summer when, fresh off a Zoom breakup (yes, that’s a thing), my sister dragged me to an outdoor Beyoncé concert, insisting that “Break My Soul” was written specifically for me.

No matter how much you think you’ve got it figured out, being vulnerable means stepping back into those moments and admitting they still sting. It isn’t pretty. It’s crying on a hand-me-down couch during a Houston thunderstorm while Luther Vandross plays in the background. It’s grappling with the fact that sometimes you’re not the protagonist in your relationships—you’re the one who fumbled the bag. Vulnerability reveals your cracks, and writing about it makes those cracks neon-glow visible, at least to yourself.

Lessons from the Tough Stuff

By the time I scraped together a decent draft, something surprising had happened: I understood vulnerability better. The piece I ended up writing—after many cups of coffee and no fewer than three calls to my editor muttering, “I’m done; I quit; I’m writing about breakfast tacos instead”—wasn’t perfect. But it was the truth.

Here’s what that article taught me—and what I hope you’ll take away, no draft writing required:

  • It’s okay to suck at being vulnerable at first. Like yoga poses or baking homemade bread (shoutout to everyone who “reluctantly” discovered sourdough during the pandemic), vulnerability takes practice. Start small: a heartfelt text, finally admitting you didn’t like the movie your partner swore you would, or saying “I’m scared of where this is going” in a relationship.

  • You don’t have to trauma-dump to be vulnerable. Sharing emotional truths is powerful, but it doesn’t mean laying everything bare the first time someone asks, “How are you, really?” Vulnerability is about trust and pacing—kind of like cooking a roux without burning it. (This took me months to master. The roux, I mean. Still working on pacing my emotional revelations.)

  • Vulnerability isn’t weak—it’s strategic. Seeing love and connection as a chessboard sounds cold, but being vulnerable is sometimes about playing the long game. It’s about saying, “Here’s my imperfect self. Can you meet me in this space?” And sometimes, when people can’t, that’s the sign you’re saving yourself for someone who can.

  • Laugh through the cringe. Vulnerability is inherently awkward: crying at the wrong moment, overthinking a text after a fight, or admitting that butterflies terrify you—not the flying kind, but that adrenaline surge when you realize you like someone. Laugh about it. Vulnerability and humor are cousins, and both are rooted in honesty.

The Payoff

That "hardest piece ever" eventually went live. I was certain it would be met with a resounding “meh” from my readers and tumbleweeds in the comments section. But the response proved me wrong. People didn’t just read it—they felt it. Folks emailed me stories of their own moments of vulnerability, from difficult conversations with partners to confessions made in therapy. One reader told me it convinced him to finally ask out his longtime crush. Another messaged me to say she passed the article around to her book club and it sparked a two-hour discussion.

Here’s what I learned: when you offer the messy, unpolished parts of yourself to others, you give them permission to hold up a mirror to their own experiences. Vulnerability isn’t about perfection—it’s about carving out space for connection, one bold step (or awkward misstep) at a time.

Your Turn

So, why am I telling you this? Because all relationships—romantic, platonic, or somewhere in between—thrive on vulnerability. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. When we allow ourselves to drop the cool facade or the endless “I’m fine” mask, we make room for intimacy. And isn’t that the point?

So go ahead. Be bold. Be a little clumsy. Whether you’re confessing feelings, apologizing, or finally telling someone what’s really on your mind, remember: vulnerability doesn’t make you less strong. It makes you more human. And being human? That’s where love lives.