I spent my childhood learning how to saddle a horse before I could tie my own shoes, yet I’ve spent most of my life absolutely terrified of something that feels just as wild and untamed—being vulnerable. Turns out, opening up to someone is a lot harder than breaking in a mustang. Vulnerability isn’t something you can muscle through or avoid by taking a detour through a quieter trail. Believe me, I tried.
But then one day, this fear of vulnerability—my lifelong nemesis—came knocking, wearing its Sunday best and armed with big questions. It wasn’t asking whether I’d rather stick to the shallow end of emotional intimacy forever (spoiler alert: I would’ve). It was asking if I wanted my relationships to actually mean something.
From High Fences to Broken Gates
I’ve always been the guy who wasn’t afraid of anything that came with dirt under its fingernails. I’ve wrangled ornery calves, taken my share of tumbles on horseback, and survived being stranded overnight on a mountain trail in a storm. All of that is fine and dandy because I understand it—there’s a fix, a solution, or at least a campfire and a thermos of questionable coffee waiting for you on the other side. Emotions? That’s different.
In fact, I’d built a fortressed version of myself so tidy, so impenetrable, I should’ve been featured on one of those real estate shows: “Man Makes Emotional Bunker in the Rockies—Guess Where the Door Is?”. To outsiders, I was friendly and easygoing, delivering my best “aw, shucks” charm like some rom-com cowboy who says things that sound profound while whittling a stick. Inside, though? I was like one of those miners I used to talk about during my tour guide days—digging tunnels but never willing to come up for air.
That hit a wall when I met someone who didn’t just want my well-rehearsed stories and mountain-man humor. She wanted everything, and she wasn’t going to settle for anything less.
When Vulnerability Becomes the Wild Animal You Must Tame
Here’s a lesson they don’t teach you in history books (or at Colorado State University): vulnerability works a lot like skittish wildlife. The more you avoid it, the harder it is for it to trust you when it matters. And boy, did my vulnerability have trust issues.
Let me paint you a picture: You’re sitting there in the world’s coziest two-seater cabin, wood smoke curling up into a high-country sky, and the life of your dreams is available for the taking. All you have to do is answer one question: “What scares you the most?”
What came out of my mouth wasn’t something cowboy-poetic like “losing the sunrise over the mountains.” Nope. It was the shaking, stammering confession that I didn’t know how to let someone love me wholly. Cue the sound of my emotional cattle stampeding in every direction.
Here’s the thing: that moment was terrifying. My voice cracked like a six-shooter misfiring, and my hands gripped that coffee mug tighter than I ever gripped the reins of a runaway horse. But you know what came next? The world didn’t end. She didn’t laugh or pack up and leave. Instead, she stayed.
Wrangling Vulnerability in Stages
If you’ve found yourself doing the “I’m fine” square dance every time someone gets too close, here’s what finally worked for me. Spoiler: This isn’t about some magical switch. Learning doesn’t happen all at once when you’re staring vulnerability in the face. It’s slow, cautious, like coaxing a deer into an open meadow.
-
Start Small (Like, Really Small)
You don’t need to write heartfelt love letters or pour your soul out in one go. Vulnerability is a muscle that’s been in hibernation—it needs stretching. For me, it started with admitting when I didn’t know what the heck I was doing, whether it was in a conversation or planning a weekend getaway. Letting someone in on my weaknesses cracked the door open just a little. -
Use Laughter as a Bridge
I realized that I didn’t have to handle my fears so seriously. If my partner and I were going to explore the depths of my emotional baggage, I figured we might as well pack some humor for the trip. Joke about your quirks and the silly self-imposed rules you’ve been living by. For me, it was making light of my “emotional bunker” and calling my tendency to bottle things up “McAllister’s Fort of Solitude.” Self-awareness can be just the levity you need. -
Be Honest About the Hard Stuff (Even If It’s Ugly)
Vulnerability isn’t limited to candlelit moments and deep conversations—it also includes owning your bad days and moments of doubt. There was a time when I snapped over something dumb—probably a bad attempt at chopping kindling—and instead of repressing it, I apologized. A real apology. Not the half-baked “what do you want from me?” kind. It went something like: “Sorry, it’s not you. I’m frustrated because I don’t want to mess this up with you.” That’s scarier than apologizing, I know. But trust me, it pays off. -
Listen Like You Mean It
Vulnerability isn’t a one-person rodeo. Once I started opening up, I realized that other people craved a space where they could do the same. Listening—really listening—is a gift, and it means you’re no longer stuck behind the walls you spent years building.
Fumbling Through Bravery
There’s something incredible that starts to happen when you stop running from vulnerability. For me, it was like watching the first signs of spring come to the Rockies after a relentless winter. You don’t notice it at first—the thaw happens so slowly. Then one day, there are buds on the trees and the dull brown of the hills is replaced by the bright green of something alive.
I’d like to say I’ve completely conquered my fear, but honestly, that’s not the point. Fear has a way of mingling with courage, and it turns vulnerability into a lifelong practice rather than a one-time achievement. What I’ve discovered is this: The risk of showing someone your true self isn’t bigger than the reward of being accepted, as-is.
Bringing It Home
If you’re carrying that fear of vulnerability like it’s a packhorse loaded with boulders, I encourage you to start unloading one by one. Speak up. Share a doubt or a dream. Own your complexities the way a rancher owns the unpredictable terrain—knowing it’s hard but worth riding through.
Every honest interaction you have is a step closer to real connection. And if someone’s already in the saddle with you, then good news: That kind of courage isn’t just contagious—it’s transformative. Turns out, taming vulnerability might just feel a bit like finally breaking free.
