It starts innocently enough, like the ghost scene from Ghostbusters—both amusing and kind of bewildering. But instead of green slime or floating books, it’s me, standing outside a quaint café or logging into my family’s group chat, feeling my stomach tighten in that lovely-anxious way that only fear can induce. My fear isn’t ectoplasm. It’s vulnerability—the oh-so-vivid sensation of letting people see the softer, weirder edges that make me "me."

That’s the fear that gets me every time—whether it’s with a new romantic interest, the melding of two families at a cousin’s wedding, or sitting across from my partner during a random Tuesday dinner when they ask, “Tell me something about yourself I don’t know.” Vulnerability—bearing my quirks, fears, or passions to someone else—feels like deliberately tripping over a crack in the sidewalk just to see how the earth kisses your face.

So, what scares me the most? Letting people in. And why do I do it anyway? Because every time I confront this fear, something magical happens: I meet myself again, too.

“Are You Sure You Want to Do This?”

If vulnerability were a person, they’d be like that friend who convinces you to take a scary thrill ride. (Looking at you, Carmen—the real-life instigator of my first rollercoaster-induced scream-apalooza in Santiago.) Vulnerability whispers, “It’ll be fun. Trust me!” only to leave you clutching your stomach at the top of a metaphorical emotional drop. It’s easy to turn down the invitation; life seems safer when you keep your guard up, doesn’t it?

But life at arm’s length is… boring. Guardrails keep you safe, sure—but they also keep at bay the things that could make your stomach flip in the good way. Like flirting with a stranger at a bookstore (even though you both awkwardly reached for the same copy of The Alchemist). Or showing your partner a terrible, early poem you wrote as a teenager titled something tragic like, “Unrequited Hearts in September.” (Will they laugh? Oh, for sure. But then again, so will you.)

The truth is, I’ve learned—slowly, painstakingly—that fear and vulnerability are like conjoined twins. Deep connection doesn’t exist unless you stretch a little in their direction.

The Awkward Art of Getting Real

So how do you leap into vulnerability when every instinct screams, “Abort mission! Shut it down!”? I won’t sugarcoat it: It’s awkward. Like… Paula Abdul-choreographed-in-1989 awkward. But that’s kind of the point—vulnerability makes you human. And humans are gloriously messy. (If you need proof, just try to assemble IKEA furniture on a deadline with your significant other. You’ll meet new layers of “messy.” I promise.)

Here’s what works for me—on dates, with friends, or even around complicated family dynamics:

  1. Start Small: You don’t need to monologue about your existential dread over appetizers, my friend. (Trust me, the breadsticks deserve better.) Share something slightly embarrassing but not mortifying. “Fun fact: I still remember all the words to the Pokémon theme song” is fair game. Vulnerability isn’t about dumping your entire emotional hard drive—it’s about cracking the door open.

  2. Embrace Humor: Laughing at yourself eases everyone’s nerves. When I first told my partner (shoutout to Dimitri for surviving this moment) about my inexplicable crush on Ace Ventura-era Jim Carrey, it was freeing. It also gave him permission to admit he once wrote Avril Lavigne-style breakup lyrics in college. Vulnerability through humor works like WD-40 for sticky human connections.

  3. Ask Before Diving Deep: Whether with your bestie or your boo, gauge where they are. A thoughtful question—“What’s the most surprising thing you’ve learned about yourself this year?”—signals that it’s okay to go deeper. Vulnerability is a two-way street; make sure both parties are ready to explore without speed bumps.

  4. Celebrate the Cringe: Vulnerability doesn’t always feel warm and fuzzy. Sometimes, it’s delivering a heartfelt confession only to follow up with, “Wow, that sounded way better in my head.” And that’s okay. Lean into the cringe—it’s proof you’re trying. Progress comes from embracing the imperfect parts of being open.

Navigating the Vulnerability Olympics (aka Family Gatherings)

Let’s raise the stakes for a moment: vulnerability isn’t just about romantic relationships; it’s showing your full self in spaces where unspoken rules hang like fragile chandeliers. Case in point: my own family’s kitchen during a Thanksgiving spat about pie crusts and politics. (A disaster not even Julia Child could salvage.)

For me, being vulnerable with family often feels scarier than any first date—these are the people who already know your embarrassing childhood nickname (hi, “Pumpkin”) and your bad-at-Mathletics phase. But I’ve learned to invite depth here, too:

  • Acknowledge the Mess: Bringing your true self to family gatherings might stir up conflict. Lean in—and clarify your intentions: “I want us to understand each other better, not pick a fight.”
  • Break Tradition (Nicely): Share how you’ve changed, even if it feels risky. “So, I took this solo painting retreat, and it taught me XYZ,” can spark meaningful conversations you might not expect.
  • Laugh Through History: Family has credibility to recall every awkward school photo. Laugh with them—it’s a free pass to let your guard down.

Over time, I’ve come to realize that being vulnerable with people who already see parts of you—even if imperfectly—creates the comfort that sustains lifelong connections. Yes, sometimes it’s awkward; yes, sometimes Cousin Sarah drags up your regrettable first boyfriend. But love isn’t perfect. It’s honest, messy, and wonderfully layered.

“But What If I Get Hurt?”

Here’s the thing about vulnerability: there are no guarantees. You might share your fears with a partner, only for them to meet you with silence instead of a comforting hug. You might show the world your wildest creative idea, only to have your friends say, “Huh… that’s interesting.” (Ouch.)

But here’s the trick: vulnerability teaches you an unexpected superpower—resilience. Every “awkward overshare” or shaky karaoke duet in front of friends reminds you that you’ll be okay, no matter how you land. (Two stars, by the way, for my ill-fated rendition of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. Still worth it.)

So why do I do it, if rejection looms like a meme-worthy jump scare waiting around the corner? Because every uncomfortable leap builds emotional courage. The kind that makes any victory—small or large—taste even sweeter. Vulnerability births joy, connection, and endless moments of discovery.

The Takeaway: Jump Anyway

Whether it’s asking someone to slow dance in the living room, revealing your goofiest habits to a date, or bearing your soul in the middle of a sibling squabble, letting your guard down is scary. But fear also tells you where the magic happens.

So, jump. Open the door. Crack the joke. Recite the poem. Life—and every absurd and achingly beautiful connection we make while living it—is worth every awkward, thrilling step.

After all, isn’t the unexpected joy of “being seen” far richer than the comfort of hiding behind a mask? You’d be surprised: those moments of truth aren’t just for others—they’re gifts to yourself, too.