Vulnerability means a lot of different things for a lot of different people. For a while, I had a specific idea of what vulnerability was and how I could achieve it. This idea revolved around the notion of wearing your heart on your sleeve, primarily in a romantic context, telling a boy I liked him, sending a first message, etc but also in applying for different fellowships and prestigious opportunities after graduation. And so I practiced these, telling myself I was practicing vulnerable and that this practice would make me a greater person, more courageous and resilient to the ebbs and flows of life. But I felt no difference when those rejections came or the messages went unanswered. At least I felt no long lasting shift or inherent change to how open I felt to the inconsistency of the world. Maybe, I thought, I'm not being vulnerable enough or I'm not practicing it the right way. Or maybe, simply because other people have felt vulnerable this way doesn't mean that I will.
As with other emotions, what makes us feel exposed and vulnerable becomes our personal definition of the word. And as we share these definitions, they become the stories others tell themselves, this is what we must do to feel vulnerable, this is an act of vulnerability. I became obsessed with the notion of vulnerability after watching Brene Brown's Tedtalk, trying to identify where I could be more vulnerable and how these acts would change me. But despite these efforts, I never had that gut feeling that I was truly exposing myself or taking a risk that frightened me. That was until I started seriously hiking this past summer.
Mountains have always fascinated me and for the past few years I would travel to Shenandoah for day hikes with friends or hike around Florida with my family over the holidays. It was bittersweet leaving each day and returning to the city so after graduation I decided to treat myself to time on in some of the less intimidating mountain ranges of the world. The third day of my hike around Mont Blanc and after weeks hiking in Ireland, I found my answer to what made me feel the most vulnerable. The answer of course, was hiking. Or maybe hiking mountains taller than ones I had ever been on.
Because as I was climbing to the summit of Col de la Seigne, which, at a mere 2,516 m, marked the border between France and Italy on the Tour du Mont Blanc, I felt weaker than I had ever felt before. This could probably be attributed combination of the change in altitude and the fatigue of hiking 15 miles a day but it felt like something else for me. And since it was my experience and my story to tell, it has become my definition of vulnerability.
Because, as I was climbing up to the summit, I started to not want to. It wasn't that I could not walk anymore. I could keep moving and I could put one foot in front of the other and I could put enough oxygen in my blood (granted, it took a little more effort than normal). But it's never a matter of can or can't with vulnerability. We can do anything. The words are always there to express your feelings and the next breath will always be taken and the heart will continue to pump blood no matter how much you request it stop. We don't always want to say these words or take another breath or more importantly recognize the meaning behind this fear.
All that mattered was that I had no desire to put a step forward or ever lace up my hiking boots again. I felt weak and I felt powerless and I felt humiliated because I felt weak and powerless. It wasn't humbling or pretty or enlightening, it was mortifying. In the midst of the humiliation though, it was almost as if I knew that this was being vulnerable. Simply to recognize a weakness within myself; that I was worn out, physically but also emotionally because hiking is so much more mental strength than physical strength for me.
I was crying on top of a mountain because my whole body hurt and my mind would no longer to push my body to keep going. I didn't want to climb anymore because I recognized that maybe I am not the strongest most resilient person. That just because telling a boy I liked him did not make me feel vulnerable did not mean that I was already as resilient and emotionally mature, as I would ever be. That, for my whole life, I projected an image of strength and power and nonchalance. And even when I started to project an image of what I considered sensitive and feeling and vulnerable, it wasn't a real image. It was an image based on what I knew people imagined vulnerability to be, as I internally continued to show myself I wasn't actually weak. It wasn't my vulnerability. It wasn't an honest vulnerability.
This physical breakdown a few hundred meters from the top of Col de la Seigne, however, was my vulnerability because it showed me that even the people with the most intense desire to hid their weakness from the world can be brought to their knees. It wasn't a moment of public vulnerability where I dared to be vulnerable to another person, which I had always assumed to be the only type of vulnerability. Instead, it was a personal moment, entirely internal, a reflection of internal battles I have, and finally admitting to myself that there is weakness in me. It was a moment of cracking, one that I had not had in years. But one that I am grateful for because after all, this crack, as Rumi says "is how the light gets in".