Vulnerability used to sound optional.
It was something people talked about choosing. Opening up. Letting others see you. Being brave enough to share what hurts.
After loss, that definition stopped making sense.
Vulnerability isn’t something I decided to practice.
It arrived fully formed.
Loss stripped away a layer I didn’t know I was relying on. A layer of assumed safety. Of distance between ordinary life and catastrophe. Of belief that some things were unlikely enough to stay abstract.
Safety didn’t disappear.
It became thinner.
When safety feels thinner, it means the buffer is gone.
The space between “normal life” and devastation no longer feels wide or protected. You stop believing, even unconsciously, that careful choices or good intentions offer insulation. You know now that lives like yours exist, that families like yours are not rare, and that what happened is not reserved for someone else.
That knowledge doesn’t come from fear.
It comes from evidence.
The world also feels closer now.
Not emotionally. Structurally.
News stories land differently. Casual comments carry more weight. Sounds, situations, and passing moments reach further inside than they used to. Not because the world changed overnight, but because the layer that kept it at a distance is gone.
The world hasn’t become harsher.
It’s always been this way.
We just didn’t see it as clearly. We didn’t hear about it as constantly. Some things weren’t spoken about yet, or understood yet, or named yet. Others were happening quietly, without language or attention.
Nothing new was introduced.
What changed is awareness.
This kind of vulnerability isn’t softness.
It’s permeability.
It’s living without the illusion that tragedy is unlikely or far away. It’s moving through ordinary days knowing how easily everything can be altered, because you’ve already watched it happen.
That awareness doesn’t fade just because you want it to.
People often misunderstand what happens next.
They think vulnerability means oversharing, or emotional openness, or learning how to talk about pain. For me, it has often meant the opposite.
There are times I step back from situations. But not without explanation.
I try to explain.
I just don’t know how to explain the truth yet, or how to say it in a way that other people could receive. The real reason feels too heavy, too complex, or too unsettling to place into an ordinary conversation.
So I translate.
I offer partial explanations. Socially acceptable reasons. Easier answers. Not because I’m hiding, but because full honesty would ask too much of both of us.
That’s something I’m still learning how to navigate.
Vulnerability also means exposure to judgment.
Not always spoken. Often implied.
It’s the awareness that people may reduce loss to conclusions, explanations, or assumptions. That they may judge what they don’t understand, or place meaning where none belongs. That they may see tragedy instead of lives, or outcomes instead of people.
That exposure changes how carefully you move, and how selectively you speak.
Vulnerability doesn’t mean I’m fragile.
It means I’m aware.
Aware of how little protection there really is.
Aware of how quickly life can be altered.
Aware of what it takes now to keep moving forward without denying reality.
I didn’t become vulnerable because I opened myself up.
I became vulnerable because something unthinkable reached me.
What I’m learning now isn’t how to make myself less exposed, but how to live honestly inside that exposure. How to carry awareness without letting it harden into fear. How to move through a world that feels closer, louder, and less buffered than it once did.
That learning is ongoing.
