I’ve always had a naturally expressive personality, able to articulate my thoughts and feelings with ease, especially in spaces where I felt safe. But over time, I encountered situations where the people closest to me used my openness against me. These experiences made me question the value of sharing my deepest thoughts and emotions, leaving me hesitant and guarded.
For years, I wanted to have a platform expressing myself. I wanted to find people like me so they could know as well as I that there are others. Individuals with good hearts, multifaceted minds, versatile spirits looking for a safe space to be free. However, I held back, haunted by past betrayals. I started to believe vulnerability was a weakness—a crack in the armor that could be exploited, a door left ajar for judgment to slip through. I spent so much energy hiding my truths, convinced it was safer to keep them tucked away. But life has a way of forcing us to confront what truly matters, even when we’re not ready.
I faced an emergency that turned my life upside down. I had been having unprotected sex with someone I thought was a close friend. He had been in my life for almost a year—maybe longer—before we ever crossed that line. I’d never viewed him in a sexual way until one day, during one of our usual nights of drinking and smoking, one thing led to another.
At that point in my life, I had built a wall around myself to avoid the pain that toxic, unhealthy love had brought me in the past. I convinced myself that keeping things casual—an orgasm with someone I liked and trusted—was better than risking the emotional turmoil of a serious relationship. So, after we had sex, I didn’t demand anything from him. I didn’t ask new questions or redefine our dynamic. We carried on, casually and unprotected, until the day I found out I was pregnant.
When I told him I was pregnant, the conversation quickly spiraled into a mess of gaslighting and excuses. He brought up how his kids were older, how I didn’t understand the cost of daycare, and how the baby wasn’t conceived under the “right circumstances.” He even mentioned the burden of explaining the situation to his other children and their mothers.
Then, he asked me to sign a document that would absolve him of any responsibility. I refused. That’s when he made it painfully clear: if I went through with the pregnancy, he would resent me forever and never speak to me again.
I never thought of having kids. Honestly, I believed I couldn’t. After so many years of not getting pregnant, it seemed like motherhood wasn’t in the cards for me. But then it happened—unexpectedly, at that specific time in my life and with that particular person. Amidst the hurt from his reaction and the heavy reality that I would be facing life as a single mother, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that this had happened for a reason. A part of me believed there was meaning in it all—a purpose I hadn’t yet fully understood.
I carried that belief with me as I navigated the uncertainty, making it to 20 weeks and five days. But then everything changed. I ended up in the hospital, where I lost my baby and came dangerously close to losing my own life. The days that followed were a blur of pain, fear, and isolation.
Alone in a hospital room at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering if I would survive, I was haunted by regret. Regret for never truly being authentic. For never showing up the way I wanted to in the world. For keeping my poetry, my writings, my thoughts, and my testimony locked away. I had dreamed of building a community where people could thrive together, lifting each other up through shared truths. But I had been too afraid—afraid of judgment, rejection, and the vulnerability it would take to live out loud.
And now, it all seemed so distant. So gone.
I made a promise to myself during those long nights. If I made it through, I wouldn’t hesitate to shout my truths from the rooftops. I wouldn’t let fear keep me from being who I wanted to be. I vowed to live fully and authentically.
But when the time came—when my health improved, and the chance to speak my truth arrived—I found myself silent. The words slipped away, swallowed by the fear that had long held me captive. What if they judged me? What if my vulnerability made me look weak?
I’m still learning how to push past those fears. What I’ve come to realize is that vulnerability isn’t about being fearless; it’s about moving forward despite the fear. It’s about opening yourself up, even when you’re trembling, and trusting that what you have to share matters.
Vulnerability is what connects us as humans. When I began to share pieces of my story, even just with those closest to me that I KNOW I CAN TRUST, I noticed something profound: people didn’t pull away. They leaned in. They shared their own stories, their own struggles. In opening myself up, I found connection, understanding, and strength—not just for myself but for others, too.
Strength isn’t about being unbreakable. It’s about being brave enough to embrace the cracks and let the light shine through. It’s about showing up as your whole self, scars and all, and saying, “This is who I am.”
To anyone reading this, I want you to know that your story matters. Your voice matters. There is power in vulnerability, even when it feels terrifying. Take it one step at a time. Share a piece of your truth with someone you trust. Write it down. Speak it out loud. Let yourself be seen—not as perfect, but as real.
You are not alone. You never were. And the beauty of vulnerability is that it reminds us of that truth. Together, we can build the connections and communities that help us thrive.
Today, I’m stepping into that promise I made in the hospital, and I invite you to join me. Let’s shout our truths—not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary.
-FR