being vulnerable

unpacking and then packing up my things again

Why is it so hard to open up to new people as an adult? Maybe because there’s this baggage from every time someone did you dirty, and there’s this fear and constant search for patterns. Because who am I if not a fool if I let people treat me the same way others did? As a kid, I was never scared of getting my heart broken. I knew I was enough to fix the gaps that people leave, but how many bandages can you put around your heart?

I am maybe tired of putting bandages around my heart, and perhaps I am terrified of meeting new people. I am exhausted and annoyed, and I’d do anything to be brave like my 7-year-old self again, the one who used to carry her heart around, who wasn’t scared to get it broken because she knew she was enough.

I remember a time when friendships were as simple as sharing crayons and giggles on the playground. Back then, disappointment felt like a fleeting cloud, easily brushed away by the sun of laughter. But as I grew, those clouds became storms, and the sun hid behind them, casting shadows on every new face I encountered. I often find myself wondering if they see the scars I wear, if they can feel the hesitation that lingers in my smile.

Each new introduction feels like walking on a tightrope, my heart in one hand, my fears in the other. The stakes are higher now; the consequences of trust feel weighty, almost like a contract I never agreed to sign. I want to believe that some people can be kind, that not everyone has a hidden agenda. Yet, the echoes of past betrayals remind me to tread lightly, to hold my heart close and guarded.

There was a time when I believed in the magic of connections, when a simple smile could spark a bond that felt unbreakable. But now, I find myself questioning the sincerity behind every laugh, every shared secret. I analyze words and actions, searching for red flags, convinced that if I look hard enough, I’ll find the evidence I need to protect myself. It’s exhausting, this constant vigilance, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m missing out on genuine connections in the process.

Sometimes, I catch myself scrolling through old photos, memories of moments that once felt like forever. I see the joy in my younger self’s eyes, the innocence that allowed her to love fiercely and without hesitation. She didn’t worry about the ‘what ifs’ or the ‘buts.’ She danced in the rain, made friends with strangers, and believed that every goodbye was just a prelude to another hello. How did I let that girl fade into the background?

I long for the days when heartache was just a bruise, easily healed by time and a good cry. Now, it feels like a weight I carry everywhere, a constant reminder of the risk that comes with opening up. I’ve learned to be cautious, to evaluate every word, every gesture. It’s like playing a game where I’m always one step behind, constantly trying to anticipate the next move, terrified of getting blindsided.

I think I am envious of those who can love without reservations, who can embrace new connections with open arms. I wish I could shed this armor I’ve built around myself, to feel the warmth of companionship without the chilling dread of potential hurt. Yet, each time I think about taking that leap, a voice whispers in my ear, reminding me of all the times I’ve fallen before.

What would it be like to trust again? To let someone in without a checklist of past betrayals playing in my mind? The thought both excites and terrifies me. I yearn for that connection, but the fear of disappointment looms large. I want to share my laughter, my dreams, and my fears, but I hesitate, paralyzed by the shadows of my own experiences.

I find myself wishing I could sit down with my younger self, to tell her to hold onto that brave spirit, to not let the world harden her heart. I want to explain that the pain is real, but so is the joy that comes with opening up. It feels like a betrayal to her, this cautious version of me, and I wonder if she would recognize me at all.

Even in moments of solitude, the weight of this fear presses down on me. I hear my own heart beating, reminding me of the vulnerability I try to avoid. I crave connection, yet I build walls high enough to keep the world at bay. It’s a painful irony, to want something so deeply while simultaneously pushing it away. I can’t help but feel like I’m losing a part of myself in this struggle.

But deep down, there’s a flicker of hope, a small voice that reminds me that not everyone is out to hurt me. I’ve had glimpses of kindness that pierce through my armor, moments where someone’s genuine warmth breaks the ice surrounding my heart. It’s in these fleeting instances that I remember what it feels like to be seen, to be heard, and to be accepted for who I am, scars and all.

Perhaps the key lies in finding balance—a way to honor my past without letting it dictate my future. I want to be brave again, to take small steps toward vulnerability without diving headfirst into the deep end. I want to be able to look into someone’s eyes and see not just potential pain, but also the promise of something beautiful.

Yet, even as I prepare to take that leap, I feel the familiar weight of doubt pressing down. What if I reach out and it backfires? What if my efforts are met with indifference or rejection? The echoes of past experiences replay in my mind like a haunting melody, reminding me of the risks that come with opening my heart. It feels safer to remain in my bubble, where hurt is less likely to find me, but the loneliness can be suffocating.

I often find solace in solitude, yet it’s a bittersweet comfort. It’s easy to convince myself that I don’t need anyone, that I can be self-sufficient, but deep down, I know I crave connection. I yearn for the laughter shared over coffee, the late-night conversations that stretch until dawn, the kind of closeness that makes the world feel a little less heavy. But how do I invite that into my life when the door to my heart feels like a fortress?

The irony is that I can see the beauty in vulnerability when I witness it in others. I admire those who can share their stories without fear, who wear their scars like badges of honor. They inspire me, yet their bravery also intensifies my own fear. I question whether I can ever reach that level of openness, whether I can find the courage to stand bare before another soul. The thought both exhilarates and terrifies me.

In my heart, I know that connection is worth the risk. I recall moments where I let my guard down, even just a little, and how those fleeting seconds brought light into my life. The friend who stayed up late just to listen when I needed to vent, the stranger who smiled at me when I felt invisible—these small acts of kindness have left a lasting impact, reminding me that there’s beauty in opening up, even if it’s only a crack.

Sometimes, I think back to the times I’ve been brave. There was that one summer, filled with laughter and adventures, where I felt free to be myself. I connected with people effortlessly, sharing dreams and fears under the stars. I want to recapture that feeling, to remind myself that vulnerability can lead to something wonderful. But how do I bridge the gap between that girl and who I am now?

It’s easy to slip into the narrative that I’m unworthy of love or connection, that my past mistakes and heartaches define me. But I’m beginning to see that those experiences don’t diminish my value; they add layers to my story. They have shaped my perspective, making me more empathetic and understanding. Perhaps it’s time to embrace those complexities instead of hiding from them.

I often find myself daydreaming about the future, envisioning a life filled with authentic connections. I imagine gathering around a table with friends, sharing stories and laughter, the kind of moments that fill the heart to the brim. I crave that sense of belonging, the warmth of community that comes from being vulnerable and real. I want to experience the joy of being seen and accepted for who I truly am.

Yet, as I take steps toward that dream, I remind myself that it’s okay to stumble. It’s okay to feel nervous or uncertain. Each small effort I make is a victory, a testament to my desire for connection. I want to acknowledge my fears without letting them dictate my actions, to honor my heart’s longing while still moving forward. It’s a delicate dance, but I’m learning to find my rhythm.

There’s a part of me that longs to let go of the past entirely, to erase the memories of betrayal and hurt. But I know that’s not realistic. Those experiences are woven into the fabric of my being, and rather than erasing them, I want to learn from them. I want to use those lessons as a guide, helping me navigate new relationships with both caution and openness.

There’s no conclusion to this newsletter. I can try and try but it’s never enough and at times my own thoughts sound foreign to me.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the beauty lies not in reaching a definitive conclusion but in the ongoing journey of exploration. Life is messy, and connections are complex; it’s a dance of hope and fear, joy and pain. Each step forward, however wobbly, is a testament to resilience.

I can accept that my heart might always carry some scars, that the echoes of past experiences will linger. Yet, within that, there’s room for growth—a chance to rediscover the vibrant spirit of my younger self, the one who embraced the world with open arms. I can choose to honor my past while also making space for new stories, new connections that may bring light where shadows once dominated.

The truth is, every moment of hesitation can be a moment of courage. Each time I choose to engage, to smile, to reach out, I reclaim a little bit of that innocence. I can learn to trust again, even if it’s one small act at a time.

So, perhaps there’s no neat ending to this, just the promise of possibility—a reminder that while I may falter, I can still take those tentative steps toward connection. And in that uncertainty, there’s a flicker of hope that whispers: maybe, just maybe, the journey itself is where I’ll find the beauty I’ve been seeking all along.

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Thank you so much for reading.

Lots of love,

Kritz