Most of us learned early, and learned well, that it was safer to ‘seem fine’.
Perhaps feelings just weren’t part of the family lexicon. Perhaps opening up was met with stony silence or, worse, censure. So, we learned to tidily tuck the difficult parts away and show the world a version of ourselves that felt beyond reproach.
Back then, this may have kept us safe. Later on, it just keeps us lonely.
Why we hide
In my therapy room, I meet so many people who are exhausted, not only by whatever brought them to therapy (their ‘presenting problem’, as it’s known), but by the sheer effort of hiding how they feel about it.
Very often, these are the people seen as super capable and ultra efficient, the ones everyone leans on because everyone ‘knows’ they can cope.
Attachment theory helps explain why we do this. Our earliest relationships teach us whether it’s safe to show our needs. If those needs were met with warmth, opening up feels natural. If they were dismissed or punished, or if the people we relied on couldn’t seem to absorb our distress, hiding becomes a form of protection.
What vulnerability looks like
True vulnerability is rarely dramatic. Far more often, it’s quiet and understated.
It may mean dropping the act and being honest that you’re struggling. It may mean telling someone that what they said or did hurt you, and why.
It may mean admitting you got something wrong and that you’re sorry, when your usual MO is to preserve ‘being right’ at all costs, something that, left unchecked, erodes relationships from the inside out.
It could involve asking for help before you reach breaking point or saying, ‘I’m finding it really hard right now’ instead of the usual reflexive ‘I’m fine’. (Side note: every psychotherapist knows FINE stands for Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional, so it’s worth pairing with a more descriptive adjective.)
At its heart, vulnerability is a leap of faith. It means letting ourselves be seen just as we are, without knowing how others will respond in that moment, and being brave enough to take the risk anyway.
The paradox
What strikes me is this paradox: many of us equate showing vulnerability with weakness. Yet when a friend or family member is vulnerable with us, we’re far more likely to see it as brave and, critically, to feel flattered that they trusted us enough to tell us at all.
Think of a friend who admits that motherhood feels brutally hard some (or much) of the time. A partner who confesses they’re scared of falling behind their peers and letting you down. A pal who is honest about relapsing after years of sobriety.
These people are being brave, and if we’re the ones they choose to tell, we feel trusted. That feels good. Moments like these can really draw us closer, but only if we’re brave enough to bear not knowing, in that instant, how our candour will be received. It’s a risk, but one the research suggests pays off relationally.
So why the contradiction? Why do we admire this disarming honesty in others, yet fear the worst when it comes to coming clean ourselves?
Psychologists have a name for this: the ‘beautiful mess effect’ (Bruk, Scholl, and Bless, 2018). We tend to see our own vulnerability as clumsy and exposing, while seeing exactly the same disclosure from someone else as brave and endearing. In other words, we’re far harsher judges of ourselves than the people around us are likely to be.
This won’t be the last time you hear me say that, by the way. More on this in a later article.
A note on trauma dumping
This distinction is worth being clear about, because sharing vulnerably and trauma dumping have very different effects on both the person sharing and the person listening.
Trauma dumping is sharing heavy, painful material without checking whether the listener has the capacity, the context, or has even consented to hear what’s coming, either right then or indeed at all. It’s usually driven by overwhelm rather than a wish for connection, and it often leaves both people feeling worse.
Healthy vulnerability, in contrast, is chosen, paced, and mutual. It’s shared with people who have earned our trust, at a moment when they can hear it, and it builds closeness gradually rather than flooding your companion’s nervous system.
It also leaves psychological room for the other person. It checks in first (‘Have you got a minute? There’s something I’d like to tell you’), and it’s proportionate to the relationship. You might tell a newer friend you’ve had a rough week but save the full story of your difficult childhood for someone who has shown, over time, that they are willing and able to hold it.
So… what to do, and how to do it
Start small
You don’t need a dramatic confession. In fact, please don’t go all ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned’. Chances are neither of you needs that, unless, that is, one of you is an actual priest.
Instead, you might try:
- answering honestly the next time someone asks how you are: ‘Well, since you ask, today actually isn’t great / was utterly brutal / I’m at an all-time low’ (delete as appropriate)
- asking for help with one small, time-limited thing: picking up the kids because the wheels have fallen off your day, not retiling the patio
- telling someone that you appreciate their honesty, their generosity, or the way they handled something difficult (yes, some people even find this a challenge)
- writing down a situation you’ve been avoiding, even if it’s just for yourself for now
Being seen
The moments that change and connect us are rarely the polished ones. They’re the messy, honest ones.
Think back to the conversations you treasure most. Chances are they weren’t the ones where everyone was at their shiniest and in ‘showroom condition’ (love that phrase): your highlight reel. They were the ones where someone dropped the act, and suddenly you could too.
Being seen doesn’t mean being liked by everyone. You won’t be liked by everyone anyway; hell, you don’t even like everyone! It means being known, warts and all, by a few people who matter, and finding that you, and your warts, are still welcome.
And this is where the magic happens. When you lower your guard, you quietly give the people around you permission to lower theirs.
That matters, because loneliness rarely comes from being alone. It comes from being surrounded by people while feeling that nobody really knows us. Every honest moment chips away at that, for you and for them.
Over time, those small acts of courage add up to relationships where nobody has to pretend, and that is where real rest, and real healing, begin.
You don’t need to have it all together to be worthy of love. You only need to be willing, little by little, to drop the act and let yourself be known for who you actually are, rather than who you thought the world expected you to be.
What’s one small way you could let yourself be seen this week?
Reference
Bruk, A., Scholl, S. G., and Bless, H. (2018). Beautiful mess effect: Self-other differences in evaluation of showing vulnerability. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 115(2), 192-205.
