How Embracing Vulnerability Became My Greatest Act of Courage

Image by author on Canva

 

As a kid in an abusive home, I learned early on that my feelings were irrelevant. If I was upset about something or needed anything, it didn’t matter. I had to keep it to myself. I learned not to ask for help because I was a bother, a burden. I learned to stay out of the way and handle things for myself. An excellent life skill, as it turned out, but as with anything, it had a downside, too.

I became so independent that as I grew up, moved into adulthood, and faced a lot of challenges, I didn’t know how to ask for help. It didn’t even occur to me to ask for it. And I couldn’t say “Yes” if anyone offered it. Perish the thought! I just always figured things out for myself. I learned to be strong and to handle – alone – whatever miseries life threw at me.

People have often told me how strong I am, but there have been plenty of times when I was crumbling and in pieces. I just couldn’t bring myself to show it. I’d tried a few times with people whom I thought were close friends, but they didn’t take it well.

I remember one particularly low point when I was in rough shape. I was struggling to cope with some distressing health news that came on top of a long period of other challenges. It was the proverbial straw landing on the camel’s back. I wasn’t actively suicidal but I was so fed up with one thing after another being thrown at me, I just didn’t want to be here anymore.

It took everything I had to turn to someone I thought was one of my closest friends. I’d listened to her for countless hours over several years, supporting her through a lot of stress and struggles. I shared how I was feeling and she said, “You can’t feel like that! You’re so strong! You always cope with everything!

It was like a kick in the stomach. I got off the call as quickly as I could. I nearly gave up the notion of reaching out for a little support. But I decided to try one more “close friend,” another one who had needed my supportive ears and words on numerous occasions.

Her response was even worse than the first one I’d received. She was angry. Raised her voice and spat, “That’s just sick! That’s a horrible thing to say! Stop it!”

Instantly, I was filled with shame for having those feelings, and for having dared been so foolish as to try to ask for help. Clearly, that was not something I was allowed to do in this life.

I donned my suit of armour once again. I dragged myself through one day after another. And it was a very long time before I dared show anyone that I was struggling.

***

Fast forward about 25 years…to an especially challenging time a few years ago. Over 15 months, I experienced a series of traumatic events that sent me to a very dark place.

During those months, I was terrified for my safety. I became a fearful, anxious mess, even after I was no longer in harm’s way. I was afraid to leave my home. Even a short walk was too much. I was ridiculously skittish. My heart was pounding with every step, palms sweating, especially if a car came up behind me and slowed as it got close. I was terrified of some sort of attack. I couldn’t cope with it and only went out if it was absolutely necessary.

I was horrified to realise that after having got rid of several anxiety disorders when I was a young adult, a few of them had returned. Once again, I was having panic attacks and had become agoraphobic. And I could feel OCD creeping back, too.

I was having violent nightmares, and constantly reliving the events that had sent me back to that awful, anxious place. I was a complete mess. I was gutted to have ended up in a terrible place that I’d left decades earlier. After coping so well with numerous challenging and traumatic events throughout my life, I couldn’t believe that I was right back where I’d started.

It was a massive blow in so many ways, on top of everything I was already dealing with. I felt deep shame and humiliation for not being able to pull myself together, for having come apart and not being able to cope. I didn’t recognise myself.

Because of my personal healing journey and professional training, I’d learned numerous tools to take care of my mental health and life challenges. They had served me well for many years. I’d spent decades sharing them with others, too, helping them with their various life challenges.

But those tools weren’t working for me anymore. My confidence and self-esteem were shattered. I’d offered so much support and healing for many others for decades, yet I couldn’t even help myself.

It was a terrible low point, one I never thought I’d see again. But I knew I was in trouble. I finally broke. I had no choice but to reach out for help. I can’t even tell you how hard it was to admit that I was a crumbling mess. Even worse, I wasn’t strong. I had no choice but to be vulnerable and to admit that I needed help in a huge way.

But it was one thing to admit that to myself. It was a whole other thing to actually make the call.

It didn’t help that I really did not want to relive everything and have to talk about it. It made me more upset to think about it. I just wanted it to all go away.

I had to gear myself up to make the call but eventually, I did it. I rang a mental health crisis line. I cried so much, that I could hardly speak, which had never happened to me before at any point in my life. I was drowning in shame, humiliation and embarrassment.

The intake woman on the other end was truly an angel. Kind. Patient. So deeply compassionate and told me over and over again that given what I’d been through, I’d coped pretty well to have gotten this far. She validated my feelings. By the end of the call, she’d set me up for a proper assessment, sending a stack of forms in the post and booking an appointment for me to talk to a psychologist.

Once I’d got through the forms and the assessment, I was given a diagnosis of Complex PTSD.

I’m not a fan of labels; I believe that for many, they create limitations and an opportunity to make excuses rather than changes. But what was more helpful than the diagnosis was having someone tell me that my extreme response to the terrible events of 2020 and 2021 was entirely understandable, and was exacerbated by a lifetime of other fear and numerous crises going back to childhood. The label helped me understand that there was nothing wrong with me at all.

It had been hard enough to acknowledge that I was a complete mess, and even worse, to show that to a stranger who had never seen me at my best and my strongest.

But I thought about the few previous decades, and the countless times I’d listened to others in the same general state, either in my work, as a volunteer, or as a friend.

I remembered that I hadn’t judged them for it, and in fact, applauded their courage in being able to show their vulnerability and be willing to say they needed help.

I remembered all the times I told them it showed great strength.

I had to accept that it was my turn to say those things to myself.

That moment of vulnerability — admitting I needed help — had been a turning point. I’d spent a lifetime equating strength with silence, but I’ve learned that true strength lies in letting yourself be seen, even in your darkest moments.

That call didn’t fix everything overnight, but it opened the door to healing, connection, and compassion I never thought I’d allow myself to receive. I’m no longer trying to prove I’m strong. I know I am — because I had the courage to be vulnerable.