Written March 2022, Copenhagen, Denmark
I once dated a guy who told me I was “proud and closed like a book.” He wasn’t wrong. But I had to be. That was my dam, the thing that kept all the shame, grief, and anger from spilling over. I hadn’t yet developed the language for my experiences, so I built walls instead. But as the years passed, the pressure behind those walls kept building.
This is a story about shame, vulnerability, and what happens when we finally let ourselves be seen.
The Silence of Childhood
When I was little, I didn’t have the words to explain why there were no Christmas presents under the tree—why my mother hadn’t come out of the darkness. I couldn’t explain why I never invited friends over, terrified they’d get caught in the storm that brewed between my parents, or worse, that they’d witness my mother’s rage, the sound of plates shattering in the kitchen. I couldn’t explain why I never cried when I fell and scraped my knees, why I swallowed the pain whole. Because I knew that if I let one tear escape, the whole dam might break.
I understand now that this is what trauma does to the brain. The prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for reasoning and language, can go offline when we experience chronic stress or emotional neglect, making it difficult to articulate what we’re going through. Meanwhile, the amygdala, the brain’s fear center, stays hyperactive, always scanning for threats. So, I learned to keep quiet, to stay small, to anticipate disaster before it struck.
I was drowning in shame. Shame over my silence. Shame over my helplessness. Shame over how I felt, or rather, how I couldn’t feel. Dr. Brené Brown, one of the leading researchers on shame and vulnerability, says that “shame thrives in secrecy,” and I felt that in my bones. I was ashamed of my mentally ill mother, my absent father, my distant siblings, and the unspoken truths we tiptoed around like broken glass. Because we never talked about it. That was the worst part—pretending it wasn’t happening.
How Trauma Shapes the Story We Tell Ourselves
So, I stayed quiet. I sat in that silence and wove myself a story: that I didn’t belong anywhere, that love was something other people got to experience, that I could disappear and no one would notice.
Psychologists call this “negative self-narrative,” a coping mechanism common in people who experience childhood adversity. When children grow up in unpredictable environments, their brains work overtime to make sense of the chaos. Without the proper reassurance from caregivers, they often internalize the belief that they are the problem. Not the circumstances. Not the parents. Them.
This kind of thinking gets wired deep. Studies show that early experiences of neglect and emotional invalidation can lead to “learned helplessness,” a state where we stop believing we have any control over our lives. I see now that I carried that helplessness into adulthood. I believed that if I just kept the mask on, kept the dam intact, I’d be okay.
But while I was so fixated on maintaining that facade, I never noticed the way spring kept whispering its promise of new, green life. I never felt summer’s warmth trying to thaw my frozen heart. I was too busy surviving to notice that life was still happening around me.
Until the dam broke.
What Happens When We Can’t Hold It In Anymore
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t some cinematic moment of healing. It was messy. The shame, the grief, the anger—it all came rushing out in a flood, years of swallowed emotions spilling over before I could stop them. And somewhere in the chaos of it all, I realized something: the real strength wasn’t in holding it all in. It was in letting it out.
There’s a reason for this. Trauma that isn’t processed doesn’t just go away—it gets stored in the body. Neuroscientist Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, in his book The Body Keeps the Score, explains how unprocessed trauma gets trapped in our nervous system. It shows up as chronic tension, digestive issues, migraines, and a constant feeling of unease. In my case, it showed up as emotional numbness—a disconnection so deep that I mistook it for strength.
I had spent years believing that softness was weakness, that vulnerability was something to be ashamed of. But the truth is, there is nothing stronger than a soft soul. Soft things bend, shift, adapt. Hard things? They just break.
Am I Too Much?
But in my rush to finally feel, to finally speak, I threw myself headfirst into honesty. And sometimes, I wonder—did I go too far?
On a recent date, I found myself apologizing for my word vomit, for spilling my life’s baggage onto someone who had barely finished his drink. I worried that I had overwhelmed him, that I had taken up too much space. But he didn’t mind.
And maybe that’s the thing. Maybe it’s not about me being too much. Maybe it’s about who’s listening. Because after years of being silent, I refuse to let the shadows have the last word.
But the truth is, vulnerability still terrifies me. Some days, I want to rebuild the dam, brick by brick, keep it all locked away again where no one can touch it. Because being open means I could get hurt. Being seen means I could be rejected.
But then I remind myself: you need to feel to heal, and feeling will always be better than not feeling. Even when it hurts. Even when it’s messy.
Research backs this up, too. Studies on emotional resilience show that people who allow themselves to feel—who embrace the full spectrum of human emotion—tend to be happier in the long run. Psychologist Susan David describes this as emotional agility, the ability to face emotions rather than suppress them. And the paradox is, the more we try to avoid pain, the more it controls us.
Vulnerability and Self-Love
If there’s one thing I know now, it’s this: vulnerability and self-love are inseparable. Because when you love yourself—truly love yourself—you know that nothing can really break you. You have your own back. Your own hand to hold. Your own heart to lean on.
And suddenly, being vulnerable doesn’t feel so scary anymore.
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