Modern psychology is now discovering that vulnerability is truly crucial to happiness and fulfillment in relationships. So maybe you’ve heard of vulnerability, but what exactly is it? The root of the word is vulnus, Latin for “a physical or emotional wound” or “injury to one’s interests.” Vulnerability, then, is “wound-ability”, or the ability to be hurt.

We children of divorce certainly know about being hurt, and deeply so. For most of us, our parents’ divorces were just the center of a whole constellation of wounds that started long before the divorce and continues today, wounds often renewed on every holiday where we split time between parents or every time we see a happy, intact family and feel that pang of grief for what we never had. My own constellation of wounds began when my mom became severely mentally ill when I was five and never got herself help. Mom changed from the safest person in the world who loved me dearly to someone who was wildly unpredictable, paranoid, delusional, and sometimes dangerous. She’d often be severely depressed and stay in bed for days, leaving my siblings and me to fend for ourselves while Dad often worked out of town during the week, and then she and Dad would fight when he was home on weekends. Sometimes, Mom was physically abusive, too—like the time I was seven and hadn’t woken myself up on time yet again and was late for school. Mom flew into my room in a rage and smacked me over and over, solely because the other moms would think she was a bad mom.

Many of us whose parents divorced when we were kids feel like we were cheated out of a childhood; that’s definitely the day mine died. When Dad finally realized how bad things were, he moved us kids out for a while. We moved back when she seemed better, then moved out again when she wasn’t. They finally divorced when I was ten, and Dad got full custody of us, after which Mom pretty much became a stranger to me. Before and after the divorce (which was five years after Mom got sick), I had few friends. Before the divorce, it was because Mom was dangerous, and our classmates’ parents didn’t want them around our house; mental illness had a huge stigma in the 1980s anyway. After the divorce, it was because we kept moving, and between always being the new kid and being a very deeply hurting kid in the custody of an emotionally unavailable and very critical father, I didn’t have the wherewithal to make friends.

Then there was going through puberty without a mom around, losing contact with Mom’s side of the family after the divorce, Dad’s remarriage and the “blending” of two families, suddenly having a stepmother who got more affection and attention from my dad than I’d ever had, three more moves before I started eighth grade, etc. The pain continues to this day, as my dad remains very critical and distant, my stepmother tramples all over my feelings most of the time, and my sister and I are estranged because of the fallout. I have really been going through a process of grieving the loving family mine never was. I love my family, but I’ve never felt like I fit in it, and it’s more work than consolation to love them.

My feelings, desires, interior needs, and pain went unnoticed at best and were mocked at worst. Heck, even some of my physical needs went unnoticed. I realized in retrospect some months ago that no one had ever actually taught me how to do things like use deodorant or even how to wash my hair. I’d just gotten so good at figuring things out for myself that no one noticed I needed to be taught some basic “growing up” things. Lucky for me, I do well with reading and following instructions. But as for emotions, Dad was simply too busy, and probably too wounded, to notice, and in a family where only adults were allowed to be right or really heard, if I spoke up, I was “unreasonable” or “selfish”. Plus, I was frequently bullied at school and then came home only to spend non-school hours fighting or trying to avoid fights with the family, and also spending the time getting severely made fun of by my siblings.

I had no real support and never felt like I belonged anywhere. I just hurt immensely and had no way to address that hurt. Having had enough of being hurt and being blamed for hurting, I just stopped trying to get anyone’s attention, shoved all my emotions as far down as I could, and suffered in silence. I relied on myself, bottled up everything, stopped asking for things, and even stopped wanting anything important. I had no hope or motivation and felt I didn’t matter. I lied almost compulsively because it was easier than showing the real me that wasn’t appreciated, even though it was obvious I was lying. I’d built a castle around my heart, pulled up the drawbridge, and put alligators in the moat. Paradoxically, I was immensely lonely but couldn’t see why no one wanted to ford the moat. I couldn’t let anyone close because if people got close, they could fail me, make fun of me, not be there for me, and otherwise hurt me. They would see me as the “nothing” I thought I was. In a real way, my castle was definitely helpful when I was a kid—let’s be honest, I went through multiple kinds of trauma—but the problem is, it long outlived its purpose and was standing in the way of my being a happy adult. The siege is over, and I’m safe. But even though I knew that, vulnerability still scares me. Allow my myself to be woundable? Oh, heck no!

Vulnerability naturally sends children of divorce heading for the hills. How can being woundable be good? As I said, psychology tells us it’s good. But first, let’s start with a third possible meaning of vulnus my Latin dictionary lists: a “wound of love.” That’s really enlightening, because you know who talks about a “wound of love” a lot? Saints and mystics, like St. Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross. People who are deeply in love with the Lord, who are intimate with Him, and who loved others deeply as well. So that suggests that love and vulnerability go hand in hand. But why stop at mystics? Let’s note that Our Lord Himself set the example by allowing Himself to be wounded for us, allowing His very heart to be pierced out of love for us. He was vulnerable to us because He wanted our closeness. He sure knows what it’s like to be woundable, doesn’t He? Our Lady, too, was vulnerable. Simeon told her, “and you yourself a sword shall pierce,” and she suffered so much out of love for her Son. The examples of Jesus and Mary, who loved perfectly, show that vulnerability is the foundation of deep, trusting, giving, reciprocal love. You can’t be wounded more than Our Lord was, which tells us that the more vulnerable we are, the better we can love.

But research in modern psychology is catching on to what mystics and saints already knew: Vulnerability is key to finding love, happiness, and fulfillment. You can’t have the good emotions and happiness without vulnerability, without allowing the possibility of the bad. Remaining closed off to some emotions (the hard ones) keeps you closed to all of them. Psychologist Brené Brown has studied vulnerability for years and is the expert, so I’d highly recommend checking out her books and her TED talk. What I especially like about her is that she hated vulnerability just as much as we do and only accepted its importance because she trusted her research, so she’s as unbiased as you can be about it.

If vulnerability is so important, can we learn or re-learn how to be vulnerable? It takes hard work, but I’m happy to say from experience that it’s possible. I’m a work in progress, but I’ve kicked out the alligators and demolished a lot of my old castle. You’ve just read my story, which is the tip of the iceberg. If I can learn to be vulnerable, I believe you certainly can too. The question of how to go about it is a little trickier, as that will look different for each of us. But here are a few general ways to get started:

1.      Recognizing and naming our vulnerabilities. Ask yourself: What scares me? Makes me feel helpless? Gets under my skin? Naming vulnerabilities helps you start to get a handle on them.

2.      Recognizing bad coping techniques and addressing them. My giving up wanting things was a bad coping mechanism. It dulled the pain of constant disappointment, but it meant I never got the joy of hearing “yes”, either. I’m addressing it by finally expressing my wants, cultivating hope, and working to be OK with being told no.

3.      Asking for help. Give people opportunities to come through for you. I learned to be really self-sufficient, so I forget to ask for help. I’ve started to change by seeking help even when I don’t need it. Sure, I could’ve paid for Instacart to deliver food and medicine when I was stuck in bed with pneumonia earlier this year, but it was so much nicer to call a colleague and say, “I can barely make it to my kitchen without passing out, let alone the store. Can you pick some things up for me?” and then see her smiling face at my door with even more than was on my list.

4.      Opening up a little at a time. Going on a Life-Giving Wounds retreat or attending a support group is a great place to start! Also, try going a little deeper in your conversations with a friend. If you’re venting after a crappy work day, go beyond the exterior events. Maybe you botched up a presentation, and the boss yelled at you. Fair enough, but what was that like for you internally? You might say, “Botching up and being yelled at in front of everyone made me feel so out of control, and I hate that feeling because it makes me feel stupid. I know I’m not stupid, but it sure felt that way.” See where that comment goes. But “little” is the key; build up over time as your ability to trust grows. The bonus is that being more vulnerable with others promotes vulnerability in them because they feel safe to open up, too. One caveat: It’s best not to start with people who’ve hurt you repeatedly or deeply, so get some practice before trying vulnerability with, say, your parents.

5.      Working to see our worth and goodness. Brené Brown says the most influential factor that distinguishes people who feel the most sense of belonging and love from those who don’t is simply believing they are worthy of it. Believing your worth is a game changer. Something that’s helped me is keeping a compliment journal. I write down everything positive thing someone says about me, from, “That dress looks great on you!” to “You’re a woman of integrity.” Whenever I struggle to see my goodness and worth, I have proof that others see them in me.

6.      Setting healthy boundaries. Boundaries might seem antithetical to vulnerability, but saying “no” in order to protect our needs requires vulnerability, because there’s risk in doing that. The other person might argue, misunderstand, or even leave. Setting boundaries highlights your vulnerability. Having none is like being a pickle jar in the recycling bin: You can be tossed out and aren’t worth respecting. Setting them, on the other hand, says, “I am a priceless piece of art glass. I am precious, and I CAN be damaged, so here is how not to hurt me.” This does get easier with practice. I’ve finally set boundaries with family, saying things like, “Doing X really hurts me. I deserve better, and X needs to stop. If it doesn’t, then don’t be surprised if I don’t come for Christmas.” They are gradually responding to this, and it’s making our relationships better.

7.      Being vulnerable with the Lord. Go to Him and tell Him exactly how you feel and what you want and need. Be really honest and open. Show Him your ugly, dark spots, not just the nice stuff. Too often, we treat Him like our parents, assuming that saying how we really feel will push Him away, that He can’t handle that. But that’s a lie. He may say no to what we want, but He’s not going to leave because we told Him. Being honest with Him opens the door to a deeper relationship with Him by inviting Him in to help demolish your castle as no one else can. Maybe this is just my personal experience, but I think that we can’t really surrender to God’s will without being vulnerable to Him. Without vulnerability, the best we can hope for is resignation, but that’s a far cry from joyful surrender.

8.      Working through your wounds with a therapist. There’s so much I want to say about this that I wrote a separate post on it - check it out here.

***

Cafea Fruor (author’s pseudonym) is a 39-year-old woman whose parents divorced when she was 10. The wounds from the divorce changed her from a happy, sweet girl into a snarky, sarcastic, defensive, hurting, emotionally reserved curmudgeon. Having learned to be vulnerable through over two years of therapy, she has softened into the much more loving, joyful, happy woman she was made to be. Cafea wants to share her experience with you to give you hope that vulnerability isn’t such a bad thing after all.