strong back, soft front, wild heart
on vulnerability and discernment in writing (and life)
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the value in writing about one’s life. I think often about why I do things, which feels like both a luxury and a neurosis. But I suspect I keep thinking about this because I have this impulse to just stop. The writing process demands my time, attention, and energy, and I’m constantly confronted by questions: Am I being honest enough? Am I sharing too much? What purpose does my writing serve?
As soon as we publicly present ourselves online - regardless of the platform - we project an image of who we are. Or perhaps more accurately, how we’d like to be perceived by others. To write is to curate an image. There’s writing, editing, and rewriting that happens behind the scenes before I consider a piece worthy of hitting the publish button. There’s careful consideration of what’s appropriate to include in a piece and what’s not.
Sharing aspects of my life through my writing is truly a privilege and with that has come pressure to make sure I’m doing it justice. Historically, the ability to write effectively confers power. And it’s a power that I’ve used throughout my life to share parts of my story, conceal other parts, and also at times to hurt others.
This has all left me wondering, what needs to be true for me to be aligned in my values and continue to write?
Where I’ve arrived is, for my writing to be the most authentic expression of who I am, it must hold space for vulnerability and discernment.
While there are a number of definitions and ways of looking at vulnerability, the one I like the most is, from Mark Manson, is vulnerability is consciously choosing to not hide your emotions and desires from others. Vulnerability, in its truest essence, is an act of connection and authenticity, not a tool or strategy. It’s not sharing a personal story or trauma because you think it’ll get you something. It’s sharing a part of who you are because it feels like that best serves the moment, the connection, the relationship, and who you are.
Discernment is defined as the ability to judge well. To be able to discern is to be able to tell things apart, even when they are very similar. Being discerning is being able to make judgments about things that aren’t obvious. To be able to discern well, is to know when to be vulnerable, with whom, and why.
To share one’s life, in whatever form, involves both vulnerability and discernment.
I have a tattoo on my rib cage that I got when I was eighteen. It reads “no one can hurt me without my permission”. The quote is credited to Mahatma Gandhi and served as my declaration that I was so invulnerable that I’d proclaim it via permanent ink on my body. I proved this while laying face down on a metal table as a man three times my size traced my ribs with a needle and told me that I had the best pain tolerance of anyone he’d ever seen.
I assure you, I don’t.
When people ask me about the tattoo now, I say the quote so quickly that I don’t leave space in between the words for me to breathe. Unsurprisingly, the mere act of me plastering this from the top to the bottom of my rib cage was a clear sign that I was feeling deeply hurt.
This desire to be seen as completely invulnerable served me well for some time until it didn’t.
Vulnerability and discernment are qualities that I haven’t sought to cultivate intentionally in my life, until now.
As I consider what parts of my life to share and what parts to hold closer, I ask myself:
Do I have the capacity to feel my feelings around this piece and the process of writing it? Am I willing to go deeper in this area if I feel called to? (Vulnerability)
Would I be comfortable talking more about this experience and this piece with friends? Co-workers? Acquaintances? (Vulnerability)
Am I regarding others who were part of the story with kindness, honesty, and integrity? (Discernment)
If the answer to any of these questions is no, then I won’t share the piece. I have many drafts of posts that were just not right for the moment. Sometimes they made me feel too vulnerable or I knew I wasn’t being honest or I still needed to work through guilt or shame or grief. Perhaps there will be a time to share those reflections or maybe they will remain stories for me to hold and share with those closest to me.
Strong back, soft front, wild heart refers to a phrase popularized by Brene Brown, and inspired by Buddhist teacher, Joan Halifax. In a world that praises and demands strength, to have a soft front is to allow yourself to be truly witnessed by another person. I’ve never seen a child who was so tough they didn’t cry after dropping their ice cream or reach out to their parents for comfort when they’re hungry or tired. We’re wired to seek deep connection and comfort, which requires us to embrace that childlike vulnerability. To have a wild heart is to embrace that at one and the same time we can be both brave and afraid, and do the thing anyway. To have a strong back is to hold that discernment, to hold boundaries and accept that not everyone deserves our stories or our deepest connection.
It’s inherently brave to attempt to be yourself when doing so opens you up to criticism and sometimes it’s difficult to know who you are at all. Through vulnerability and discernment, relationships that can handle the depth will fall together and the ones that can’t will fall apart. In my writing, I hope to cultivate this practice of bravery, and that it will encourage deep connection and brave conversations.