Choosing vulnerability in a not-so-kind world

I haven’t posted a blog for a bit. I think the fire that usually pushes me to write got soaked… doused by a message I can only describe as my first “hate mail.” It came after my last blog on friendship. A piece I wrote from my gut. I was hesitant to post but I figured others might relate. It was honest and imperfect. 

It came from someone I’ve known since my teenage years. It wasn’t a thoughtful disagreement or a curious follow-up, nor was it an invitation to reconnect. It read more like a veiled slap than an open hand.
Backhanded but vague enough to leave me second-guessing. You know that feeling when something hits you in the soft part of your gut? That’s what this was. I re-read it, felt my chest tighten, then sat with the sting.

For a moment I spiraled. Did I say something wrong? Did I unintentionally hurt someone? Was I selfish to share my story, my grief, my questions? I combed back through my blog, and our friendship history, searching for something I might have missed. And still, I couldn’t quite find what they were trying to punish me for.

I responded with kindness. With careful words and a soft tone. I didn’t match their energy, because I know what that road looks like. I’ve walked it before, and it only ever ends in bitterness. But it became clear they weren’t looking for kindness. They wanted a fight. And it wasn’t long before I stopped responding.

And that was that.

Except, of course, it wasn’t. Because moments like that don’t just go away. They linger. They take up space in your memory warehouse. They sit quietly in the back of your mind, poking at your confidence, questioning your kindness, whispering that maybe it’s safer to stay quiet. Stay home. That maybe being open isn’t worth the aftermath.

There’s something especially disorienting about being misunderstood when your intent was pure. When your only goal was to offer something real. Not perfect or polished, just honest. It messes with your sense of safety. And for someone like me, who is still learning how to take up space without apology, it made me want to retreat.

I haven’t always been vulnerable– sharing my life events with whoever cares to read them. In fact, I spent most of my life doing the opposite—aiming to be strong, poised, competent, unshakeable. Having it all together. Vulnerability wasn’t something I resisted so much as something I didn’t even recognize I was withholding. I thought I was just being strong. Resilient. “Fine.”

But underneath all that supposed strength lived a quiet world of unspoken truths. Thoughts I didn’t share and feelings I didn’t name, until life cracked me open:

First “crack” was my divorce.
That was the beginning of the unraveling. A big life shift followed by a series of smaller ones that nearly broke me. I had to learn to lean on others. To admit I didn’t have it all together. To say out loud, “I’m scared.”

Then came breast cancer.
And let’s just say, there’s nothing like having a Mardi Gras parade of people examining your boobs, photographing, touching and poking to shake your sense of privacy and pride. My body became a map of survival. My soul, a journal of humility. And the biggest shift of all? I realized I had nothing to hide (literally). And truly, nothing to lose.
So, rather than walking around Denver shirtless and bearing my heart to strangers, I found another way: I started writing.

So when I get backlash for essentially being vulnerable, it hurts in a way that’s hard to describe. Because this isn’t a performance. It’s me trying. I don’t write these blogs because I think I have it all figured out. Goodness, no. I write them because I don’t. I write to make sense of things. To reflect, to wonder, share my life stories, and connect. I write because maybe someone else will read my words and feel a little less alone in their own mess.

So yeah, maybe this blog isn’t for everyone. Maybe it never was. But it’s for me and for anyone who wants to stay along for the ride. I’ll keep writing. And hopefully I’ll make a more positive impact on others than negative. And yes, I’ll continue to be vulnerable and hopefully I’ll get a few things figured out along the way.