Why is Vulnerability So Hard?
An exploration of what it means to be truly vulnerable, beyond just taking off the mask.
It’s taken me a few tries to write this post. Each time, I find myself slipping into intellectualising vulnerability rather than expressing the emotion behind these blockages. Writing about vulnerability feels paradoxical; the very act of putting these thoughts into words requires a level of openness I’m still learning to master. This time, I’ve decided to approach it differently. I want to encapsulate vulnerability by sharing my inside voice—those unspoken thoughts that echo in my mind when we are close to being truly vulnerable.
The example I led with is that I should be feeling elated that my first draft of my second book has been submitted to the publisher. It’s the culmination of months of relentless effort, and it should be a milestone to celebrate and finally exhale. But instead, I find myself paralysed by burnout, particularly with the inability to tell anyone or reach out for help.
Rather than take time to recharge and catch my breath, I’m stuck in limbo—completely burnt out, pretending everything is fine. I go through the motions, carrying on with my daily patterns, dissociating in the process, and burying my emotions as if they’re something to be avoided rather than felt. My days become a series of tick-box exercises, counting down the hours until I can finally rest.
Inside Voice: Don’t tell people you’re burnt out. They’ll think you’re weak and incapable, like you’re crumbling under pressure. Scarcity is just around the corner—you can’t afford to slip up. Keep the mask on. Show strength. People need to see the perfect version of you, not this.
What is Vulnerability?
Vulnerability is often packaged as this grand revelation—the moment you “take off the mask” and let people see the real you. It’s become a cultural currency, a concept reduced to social media hashtags and perfectly curated “authentic” moments. But that version of vulnerability is performative—it has a beginning, middle, and end, tied up neatly for an audience. It doesn’t capture what vulnerability actually feels like: raw, messy, and terrifying.
If you’re a gay man into self-help, you’ve probably read The Velvet Rage by Alan Downs, or perhaps you know it’s what Brené Brown is celebrated for.
Vulnerability carries layers of complexity that often go unspoken. For some, it’s not just about letting down a mask—it’s about dismantling years of learnt concealment. We’ve spent our lives mastering the art of survival. We hid parts of ourselves to fit in, to feel safe, to protect what felt sacred. Our sexuality. Our emotions. Even the way we express joy or pain. This performance of resilience and strength, often born out of necessity, makes the act of letting the mask slip feel foreign, if not impossible.
At its root, vulnerability is tied to shame. Society has conditioned many gay men to believe that being authentic—being too much or too real—might lead to rejection, ridicule, or worse. Even in environments where we should feel safe, we may find ourselves scanning for subtle signs of judgement or disapproval, questioning whether we can truly let our guard down. And when we do, there’s often a fear that our vulnerability will be misunderstood or dismissed as weakness, neediness or an attempt to seek validation.
Then there’s the pressure to overcompensate. To be perfect. To create a life so polished on the outside—successful career, ideal body, curated relationships—that no one can question whether we belong. Vulnerability, in that context, doesn’t just feel risky—it can feel like the unravelling of a carefully constructed identity.
And then there’s the cultural message that we should embody a kind of polished strength, wrapped up in hyper-independence and productivity. Admitting burnout, asking for help, or exposing our emotional struggles can feel like a betrayal of that image, as though showing cracks in the facade confirms old insecurities or harmful stereotypes.
This is where vulnerability—the act that promises connection and healing—becomes fraught. For many of us, it feels like a gamble we’re not sure we can afford to take.
Inside Voice: What’s the point of saying this? You’ll just sound weak or self-indulgent. Not everyone will understand—what if they roll their eyes, thinking, “Here he goes again”? Maybe it’s better to keep this to yourself.
I don’t want people to pity me; I just want to be heard. I want someone to see the cracks without trying to fill them, to sit with me in the mess without rushing to clean it up. But how do I ask for that? How do I explain that being heard isn’t about fixing; it’s about connection? What if they can’t give me that either? What if they just leave?
True Vulnerability Is Presence
But what does it mean to be truly vulnerable, beyond just “taking off the mask”? Is it simply about sharing our pain, or does it go deeper?
True vulnerability isn’t a one-time reveal of our weaknesses or a moment of catharsis. It’s an ongoing commitment to share the messy, unpolished parts of ourselves—what we feel, what we need, what we fear—and choosing to lean into these exposed truths instead of running away, even if it carries the risk of real hurt and rejection.
When I reflect on my struggle with vulnerability, I recognise a deeper pattern: I don’t just avoid it—I dissociate from it. Vulnerability requires presence, a kind of awareness I often shy away from when life feels overwhelming. Dissociation feels like a survival tactic, a way to shield myself from discomfort by temporarily disconnecting from it. But in doing so, I also disconnect from the things that matter most: my emotions, my needs, and the opportunity for real connection. Worse, becoming more self-aware. I know i’m doing this more but I can’t stop it.
The more I push, the more I tune out the signals my body is sending me. I dissociate not just from my emotions but from the physical reality of what I need—rest, nourishment, stillness. My body shows me this in subtle and not-so-subtle ways: exhaustion, skin problems, tension, and eventually the hollow ache of burnout.
Inside Voice: One of the saddest aspects of the trauma I’ve experienced is the loneliness it creates. I can read people too well—the flick of an eye, a sigh, the subtle tightening of a jaw. I’ve seen my vulnerability make others uncomfortable, watched them retreat, and felt the sting of pity when they didn’t know how to respond. It’s exhausting to carry this awareness, to know they’d rather I stay silent. “Oh, he’s off again.” I imagine them thinking as I swallow what I really need to say. It just seems too much of a cost to be truly vulnerable.
What Vulnerability Truly Asks of Us
Vulnerability isn’t about perfection or radical openness—it’s about showing up. It asks us to let go of the need to control every perception, to allow others to see us as we are: messy, imperfect, and human.
For me, this practice feels deeply counterintuitive. Vulnerability asks me to trust—trust that I won’t be rejected, trust that others can handle my truth, and, most challenging of all, trust that I am enough even in my messiest moments.
It’s not an intellectual act. It’s not something you can “decide” to do. It’s a daily choice, one that demands courage, self-compassion, and an understanding that even when we stumble, vulnerability is still worth it. Surprisingly, when we lean into vulnerability, it doesn’t leave us feeling weaker—it leaves us feeling lighter. There’s a quiet liberation in not having to hold everything together, in knowing we can be seen and accepted as we are.
It creates space for authenticity, for showing up in a way that feels true rather than curated. It strips away the exhausting layers of pretence, replacing them with a calm that comes from knowing we don’t have to perform to belong. Anxiety starts to lessen when we stop second-guessing ourselves, and connection begins to deepen when others meet us not with judgement but with understanding.
Vulnerability, though messy and uncomfortable, brings us closer to the version of ourselves we’ve always been searching for—the one that feels whole, enough, and real.
How We Begin to Practice Vulnerability
If vulnerability feels daunting, it’s because it is. But like any practice, it starts small. Vulnerability isn’t about leaping into radical openness; it’s about taking measured steps towards connection, with ourselves and others. Here’s what I’ve learnt—and am still learning—about what this looks like in practice:
1. Start with Yourself: Before we can be vulnerable with others, we need to be honest with ourselves. This means tuning into what we’re feeling and allowing ourselves to sit with it, even when it’s uncomfortable. It’s about noticing the ways we numb or distract ourselves and gently choosing to stay present instead.
2. Create Safe Spaces: Vulnerability thrives in environments of trust. Whether it’s a trusted friend, a therapist, or even a practice like journaling, find spaces where you can explore your emotions without fear of judgement.
3. Challenge the Inner Critic: The voice that says, “You’re too much” or “You’ll be judged,” is often the loudest barrier to vulnerability. Recognising this voice—and gently questioning it—is an important step towards letting ourselves be seen.
4. Share Small Truths: Vulnerability doesn’t have to mean exposing everything at once. Start with small truths—sharing that you’re feeling overwhelmed, admitting when you need help—and build from there. Each act of openness strengthens the muscle for more.
5. Lean into Discomfort: Vulnerability is uncomfortable—it’s supposed to be. But instead of seeing discomfort as a sign that something’s wrong, try seeing it as a sign of growth. It’s in the discomfort that connection becomes possible.
Thank you for taking the time to read this piece! If it resonated with you, I'd greatly appreciate a 'Like'. Your likes play a significant role in enhancing the visibility of my work through the Substack algorithm. Your support means a lot. Thank you!
Acknowledging your own bullshit is the best bit, but also the hardest bit of this whole vulnerability thing... 💖
Beautifully written Daniel ❤️