The Fear I Conquered

Have you ever lost sleep over an irrational fear? The kind that sneaks into your thoughts at the most inconvenient times and whispers discouraging nonsense in your ear? For me, that fear was vulnerability—the kind born not of skydiving or spiders, but of showing someone my unpolished, imperfect self. In a world saturated with highlight reels and airbrushed filters, being raw felt like handing someone a loaded weapon and hoping for trust. Spoiler alert: living this way is exhausting, especially in love.

Now, I’d be lying if I said this fear vanished overnight, or that I’m now fearlessly spilling my deepest truths to anyone within earshot. But it’s a battle I’m proud to say I’ve begun to win. The victory didn’t come from a grand, movie-style epiphany, but from a string of smaller moments that, in hindsight, painted the picture of growth. If you’re harboring a similar fear, I hope my story helps you find the courage to lean into yours. Vulnerability, it turns out, can sometimes be the very magic we’re trying to hide.

Chapter One: Becoming Fluent in Walls

Growing up in Beijing as the only child of two university lecturers conferred many advantages. I could probably recite Tang Dynasty poetry by the age of six, and dinner conversations were often a crash course in intellectual debate. But emotions? Oh, those weren’t on the syllabus. Displays of vulnerability were seen as unseemly, almost indulgent. “Strong minds don’t crumble” wasn’t exactly spoken out loud, but it hummed in the air, the unspoken backdrop to my formative years.

It didn’t help that I read novels obsessively, immersing myself in tales where bravery carried kingdoms and clever, impenetrable heroines always emerged victorious. If the poets lamented anything, it was fleeting love—ephemeral feeling, never the messy truths about sharing your mistakes or deepest fears with someone else. Romance belonged to courtly exchanges and beautiful, wordless gestures.

So, by the time I reached my twenties, I was fluent in one thing: constructing invisible walls. I could flirt lightly and discuss intellectual ideas for hours, but ask me to admit I was struggling, lonely, or confused? Forget it. No emperor-turned-poet in history had set a precedent for this level of openness, so why should I?

Chapter Two: The Terrifying Moment of Being Seen

"Li, why do you always dodge tough conversations? You're great, but being with you sometimes feels like reading a novel with missing chapters." That stung. Those were the words of James, the first person I fell for during my time in New York. He was sharp-witted and endlessly curious, a lover of Gabriel García Márquez, who once declared that words could capture even the most surreal of feelings if you dared to write them.

And yet, here was someone gently pointing out the glaring plot hole in my demeanor: I had mastered plenty, but I hadn’t learned how to let someone truly see me. Being in New York had been freeing in many ways—the pace of the city, the openness of its people—but even there, certain mindsets from home clung to me.

I wanted to defend myself. You can’t point a flashlight down a well and expect to see the bottom right away, I wanted to say. But instead, I muttered something deflective and left. That relationship ended shortly after, but those words stayed with me.

Chapter Three: Baby Steps into Wobbly Territory

The universe, it seems, enjoys tossing us into situations tailor-made to poke at our unresolved issues. For me, it came during a coffee date back in Beijing. Sitting across from someone I was beginning to genuinely care for—a kind, thoughtful man named Xu—I felt the old walls rising. Xu wasn’t pressing, but there was something about his quiet patience that made me fidget. This could be safe, I thought. This could work. But it demanded one thing I had never properly offered before: the willingness to be vulnerable.

I don’t know if it was the caffeine jitters, but I blurted out, “Look, I don’t know if I’m good at this whole sharing thing.” His expression didn’t flicker. He just leaned in slightly and said, “Is there a reason you feel like you have to be?”

What followed probably doesn’t seem groundbreaking to the average person. I shared, haltingly, some of my challenges—how being raised in a household where weakness was taboo made it difficult for me to trust that someone wouldn’t take my open moments as ammunition later. Xu didn’t respond with a grand declaration of love or a pre-packaged solution. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully and said, “I think everyone feels that to some degree. But if you don’t risk letting someone in, you’re essentially fencing yourself into loneliness.”

He wasn’t wrong, but the idea of “risking” my comfort zone in this way still felt terrifying. I agreed to keep talking, though—slow, unsteady conversations that cracked the shell I’d spent years perfecting. Step by step, I dared to let someone into my thoughts, admitting weaknesses and uncertainties I typically kept locked away.

Chapter Four: Practical Takeaways from an (Ex-)Wall Builder

This isn’t a fairy tale, so no, I didn’t magically transform into an open book after a few coffee dates. Vulnerability remains something I consciously practice. But I’m telling you this because it’s easy to read about “being vulnerable” and assume it’s unattainable unless you’re an extrovert with superhero-level emotional stamina. It isn’t.

Here are a few strategies that helped me start small, and may help you, too:

  • Start with Micro-Truths: Instead of diving headfirst into your fears, try sharing something minor but real. Think: admitting you don’t understand what’s happening in an indie film instead of pretending you do. These “small truths” build the muscle for bigger ones later.

  • Choose Someone Who’s Earned It: Vulnerability feels safer when shared with someone who’s already shown care and patience. Don’t rush to bare your soul with someone who hasn’t proven themselves a kind listener.

  • Ask Questions First: If sharing feels impossible at first, create an atmosphere of openness by asking the other person meaningful questions. You’d be surprised how often vulnerability invites reciprocity.

  • Write It Out: Sometimes saying feelings aloud can feel like scaling Everest without ropes. Writing it down in a text or journal first helps you process without the immediate pressure of a verbal response.

Chapter Five: A Work in Progress, and That’s Okay

In the years since I first started taking down the metaphorical bricks of my wall, I’ve gone from someone terrified of being seen, to someone who—on a good day—is brave enough to say, “Here I am, mess and all.” Xu and I didn’t last forever (spoiler: we remain good friends), but the lessons I learned from that relationship did. They taught me not to fear the wobbliness of being human.

So if you’re still hesitant about letting someone glimpse your unvarnished self, know this: vulnerability is not the enemy. Fear is. There’s an odd freedom in saying, “I don’t have it all figured out,” and realizing that the world doesn’t collapse in response. Often, it opens up instead.

Perhaps Li Bai said it best centuries ago in his poem when he declared, “Life is infinite rivers meeting the sea.” In love, as in life, there’s no need to arrive polished or perfect. We’re all just currents searching for connection, hoping to meet those who will flow alongside us. And that, my friend, is a fear worth conquering.