What keeps me awake at night isn’t the howl of a coyote or the rustle of pine boughs in a sudden Wyoming windstorm (though I’d argue those are unsettling too). No, the thing that gets me isn’t lurking in the forest—it’s inside me. It’s the fear of letting someone see all sides of me. The messy, complicated inner workings of a guy who still gets nervous about sending a text that says anything deeper than “what’s up?” Yes, vulnerability scares the snot out of me—and yet, in relationships, it turns out I have to throw myself at it like a bull rider holding on for dear life.

Why do I do this, you might ask? Not only because humans are wired for connection, but because I’ve learned that what scares us the most is often the precursor to something extraordinary. Let’s dig into the why, how, and what to do about it. Grab your metaphorical ranch boots; we’ve got some trail riding to do.

The Fear of Being Seen

When I was a kid growing up on my family’s ranch, I was the quiet one. My siblings were all about rodeo stunts and big, loud laughs; I was the guy scribbling sketches of elk in a journal behind the barn. Small talk with tourists riding through? No problem. But cracking open my real thoughts? That felt harder than wrangling a wild mustang. And the thing is, some habits stick. Even as an adult, there’s a piece of me that wants to play it safe, keep my cards close to my chest, and just smile my way through the deeper stuff.

Here’s the kicker, though: intimacy demands more than that. We all crave connection on some level, and real connection doesn’t come from our perfectly polished Instagram lives. It comes from truth—awkward, jagged, honest-to-God truth. Being seen means trusting someone enough to let them in, and that can feel about as comfortable as diving into an ice-cold mountain lake. It’s shocking, it’s bracing—but it’s real.

Facing the Fear: Lessons From the Trail

If you’ve ever been trail riding when a storm rolls in, you know the drill. You can’t go back—the clouds are closing in—and you can’t stay put. You’ve got to face forward, one nervous step at a time, even when the thunder rattles in your chest. Showing up for your fears in relationships is a little like that.

Here’s what I’ve learned about staring down this particular beast:

  • Give Yourself Grace. Think of vulnerability as riding a green-broke horse: it’s going to be bumpy. There’s no shame in awkward moments or missteps. The goal isn’t perfection; it’s progress.
  • Start Small. You don’t have to unload your entire emotional history over appetizers on date two. Try sharing something a step beyond surface-level—a childhood memory, a dream for the future, or even that weird hobby you secretly adore. Dip your toe before the polar plunge.
  • Find Your People. Not everyone will earn your trust, and that’s okay. True connection comes with patience. Choose the people who’ve shown they value and respect your honesty, who don’t try to “fix” you but instead just see you.

When you think about it, riding through those fears is just another test of your grit and faith. If I can rappel down a rock face in the Tetons—anti-heights man that I am—you’d better believe I can say out loud, “I’m afraid I’ll mess this up,” in a relationship. Spoiler: it feels just as terrifying, but the reward has always been worth it.

Vulnerability Is Scary. Vulnerability Is Worth It.

Here’s the thing about fear: when you lean into it and push past, it doesn’t just shrink—it transforms. You start seeing the roots of those fears, and with them, the path forward. In one of my more cringe-worthy personal experiences, I remember intensely overthinking what felt like my waving-the-white-flag moment: telling someone I liked them (like, in the butterflies-and-sweaty-palms way). It was after a long day hiking, and the timing couldn’t have been less convenient. We were both mud-splattered, tired, and slightly sunburned. But I still blurted it out, one clunky sentence at a time.

Guess what? It didn’t lead to disaster. In fact, it opened the door to a whole new layer of our connection. That conversation taught me something big: it’s not the fear itself but how you respond to it that shapes what’s next. Relationships ask us, again and again, to saddle up and keep riding toward the unknown—and that’s the very thing that can shape us into better versions of ourselves. Vulnerability isn’t failure; it’s growth.

Practical Tips for Bravery in Love (Without Shoving Your Foot in Your Mouth)

Fear will never completely go away—and that’s fine. It’s not about cowardice versus courage; it’s about small steps forward amid uncertainty. If you’re looking to tackle your own inner thunderstorm, here’s what’s worked for me:

  • Get Comfortable With Discomfort. Try opening up about minor things first—what scares you about the future, why you’re still hung up on that awkward middle school memory, or how much it bothers you when your dog ignores you for your partner. It doesn’t have to be heavy right away.
  • Claim Your Story. Remind yourself that you’re not the only one who’s ever been nervous about revealing your true self. Feeling scared doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human. Own it, and use it.
  • Laugh At Yourself. Vulnerability pairs shockingly well with humor. (Case in point: “I was nervous to tell you this, but now that I’ve already tripped over my words, I might as well admit I definitely practiced this conversation in the shower.”)

The path to stronger relationships involves plenty of stumbling. Embrace it with grace, and know that every trip-up adds a little character to the ride.

The Courage To Keep Going

If there’s one thing Wyoming ranch life has taught me, it’s that every storm has its edge. What looked, at first, like a terrifying thunderhead dissolves into light eventually. Just like on the trail, fear in relationships doesn’t mean there’s a dead end ahead—it’s a sign that you’re on to something significant.

So why do I do the very thing that scares me most? Because love, connection, and trust live in that unpredictable, vulnerable middle ground. Every time I choose to show up, nerves and all, I remind myself that life’s most meaningful moments aren’t the easiest. They’re the ones we ride through with grit, humor, and hope.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a text to send—and yes, it’s a nerve-wracking one. But hey, what’s life without a little risk, right?