Vulnerability: The Courage to be Seen

There I was, standing in front of my church — maybe a hundred people, pastors and staff included — in the middle of a speech about my marijuana addiction.

I was relatively new to the church back then, and when my worship leader asked if I’d share about my struggles at a church event, I said yes immediately.

Part of me wanted to help. Another part, if I’m being honest, wanted to be seen. Maybe giving a speech would give me some credibility, a little street cred in church….

“And there I was,” I said, “like so many nights before, in my room, taking a couple marijuana buds from my desk and putting them into the grinder. A part of me didn’t want to do what I was about to do. A part of me didn’t know how to stop.”

And then I froze. Wait. What am I doing? I’m talking about getting high in front of my pastors. They’re going to kick me out of this church.

One of the pastors must’ve noticed the hesitation in my face, because she looked at me and said with a smile, “Keep going!”

So I did.

“It was a familiar sight — leafy bits of green in my pipe. Knowing I was seconds away from that high, but already feeling small, defeated, trapped.

I took my lighter, flicked it on, brought it to the pipe — and right then I saw a Bible verse on the wall in front of me:

It was a poster my Bible study group had given me when I ran the NYC Marathon a few months earlier. And for some reason, in that moment, that verse hit differently. I realized I had a reason to resist — if not for me, then for God, for His Kingdom.

So I put the pipe down. The urge went away. And for the first time in a long time, I felt peace. I felt power. I felt hope.

After I finished the speech, something surprising happened.

People came up to me — not to scold me, not to judge me — but to thank me. They told me about their own struggles: pornography, drugs, sexuality. Things I never would’ve guessed.

It shocked me. I thought I was the only one struggling, but it turns out we all are. Maybe you’ve had a moment like that too — when honesty felt like a risk, when you wondered if people would still love you if they really knew you.

I didn’t get kicked out of the church. The opposite happened.

In sharing my wounds, I was met with grace, not rejection. And more than that, I started to accept myself and my own misgivings.

What I Learned About Vulnerability

People sometimes ask how I get others to open up. I’ve wondered that myself. Part of it is that I try to make people feel safe. Part of it is asking the right questions. Part of it is probably just God’s grace.

But I think a big part is that I’ve gone deep myself.

I know what it’s like to sit in the dark, to wrestle with my own humanity. And maybe people can feel that. Maybe they sense that I’m not there to judge them — that I’ve been there too.

But I’m no expert on vulnerability. If anything, I’m probably not vulnerable enough most of the time.

I tend to stay in my shell, protecting myself from rejection or ridicule. And when I do that, I miss out — on deeper connection with others, and on deeper connection with myself.

And that’s okay.

Vulnerability isn’t about constantly revealing everything. Oversharing isn’t the same thing as openness. There’s a kind of discernment that comes with love. As Brené Brown says,

We reveal ourselves selectively — to people who are safe, in spaces that can hold us — and from a place of self-awareness rather than self-dumping.

It’s not about throwing your pain on others; it’s about letting truth and love coexist in the same breath.

Because when vulnerability is done right — when it comes from love, not from performance — it can be holy.

Vulnerability Is An Act of Love

It’s the act of taking yourself off the pedestal, peeling away the outer layers, and letting someone see your humanity — the messy, imperfect, beautiful parts of it.

It’s what gives others permission to do the same.

Even Jesus modeled this kind of vulnerability — a God who became man, exposing Himself to pain, rejection, and betrayal. That’s love at its most vulnerable: a love willing to suffer to connect.

And when we’re vulnerable from love, we’re participating in that same divine posture — letting people see the truth of who we are, not for validation, but for connection.

I think that’s why life feels so much richer, so much more alive, when we open ourselves up.

Yes, it’s hard. It’s scary. Opening old wounds always is. You never quite know how people will react, and there’s always a risk.

But love without risk isn’t love at all. And none of us really want a life without love.

Practicing Vulnerability

Being vulnerable takes practice. It means having the awareness to understand what you’re feeling, the honesty to face it, and the communicative ability to share your inner world effectively with others.

Here are three small ways to practice vulnerability

1. Name one small truth out loud.

Say something honest but slightly uncomfortable to a friend or partner.

“I’ve been feeling a little disconnected lately, and I’m not totally sure why.”

It doesn’t have to be a deep confession. Just something real in the moment.

2. Ask for help with something minor.

Let someone support you — even if you could do it yourself.

“Would you mind praying for me this week?”

Allowing yourself to need someone is a quiet but powerful form of vulnerability.

3. Share something unpolished.

A messy draft, a half-baked idea, a behind-the-scenes moment where you didn’t have it all together.

“I’m still figuring this out.”

You’re showing the process, not the performance. And that’s what draws people closer.

What would it look like for you to tell one honest truth today?

Over time, I hope you discover — as I continue to — the strange and beautiful power that lives underneath vulnerability.

Because when you open up, something opens up in others too.

With curiosity,
Eric

P.S. If you’d like to practice, reply to this email with one mildly uncomfortable truth about how you’re feeling today. I won’t judge, and I won’t share it. Promise.

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