Vulnerability in 3 Easy Steps ;-)

I joke that sitting down to write sometimes feels like walking to the edge of a cliff and jumping off. For me, the act of opening my laptop and putting fingers to keys can be that daunting. Making the conscious choice to put myself out there as a writer requires a level of courage, faith, and humility that I often must dig deep to unearth. It’s so much easier to play it safe, distracting myself with an endless stream of tasks to keep me from doing what I’m called to do, and from being who I’m called to be.

I’ve learned that the process of becoming a writer requires so much more than just writing in this, the era when Twitter dominates with its unnerving 280-character limit, bloggers outnumber newspaper journalists, and Instagram boldly tests the adage that an artsy picture is worth a thousand words. So, ironically, to write, I find myself doing all but writing. Instead, I am splashing in the shallow waters of social media, making ripples sometimes and just feeling soaked others. I keep casting my precious words around the internet like skipping stones and hope they stay aloft and skim the surface long enough to garner a like, a comment, or repost before sinking into obscurity.

To be transparent (a word that’s heavily used and inadequately embraced these days), the whole process tests what I’m made of daily, and has caused me to examine what it truly means to be vulnerable (another word; same attributes). Last weekend, I reserved an entire Sunday for working on my book. The day stretched before me with an alluring invitation to string words together like jewels on a thread in the effort to create an end-product more beautiful than the individual gems could hope to be on their own. I woke that morning and fought the urge to clean the floors, fold the clothes, or organize the junk drawer. Coffee in one hand and laptop in the other, I made my way to the water’s edge and waited for inspiration to strike. That was Sunday. Today is Friday. I’m still waiting.

The journey from Sunday to today brought me to some dark and scary places. I took a long stroll in the neighborhood of self-doubt, thoroughly explored the land of hopelessness, and visited a place where giving up was the local language. I tasted the bitterness of fear, took a giant, unpalatable bite of frustration, and sipped from the sour cup of my own imperfection. In my travels this past week, I zigzagged, I stumbled, and briefly, I got lost. Somehow, amidst the darkness, I mustered the courage to call someone to help me, and by matching the patience, honesty, and love she gave me, I found my way back to where I belong. I now know that visiting even the darkest corners during my journey showed me to my home, where I’m meant to live, the place I’ve furnished with my love for writing, the space that shines bright with the messages I have to share, and the home that’s warmed by the faith that someone in this world wants…no…needs to hear them.

What I learned about this seemingly untenable notion of being vulnerable is that it’s much simpler than it appears. For me, it distilled down to three things. Number one, admitting I am human and not perfect, number two acknowledging (not fighting) the emotions which inevitably, temporarily accompany that admission, and number three, asking for and accepting help.

Vulnerability happens when…

Unmasking becomes easier than pretending
Allowing your heart to lead gives your head a rest
Letting go of others’ judgment frees you to do the same
Wanting to be real overpowers the habit of staying strong
Admitting you’re wrong feels better than asserting you’re right
Experiencing the journey tames the need to control the process
Accepting help overcomes the urge to hunker down and go it alone
Surrendering the burden of a hundred lies ensues from telling one truth

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