it’s my first lower-case post, because i lack the desire to capitalise my thoughts right now. it’s very late and i’m not tired despite being tired all day, as always.
i’m thinking about vulnerability, and how i’m 27, and how at 24 i didn’t know i was capable of this.
i used to think wearing my heart on my sleeve was vulnerable enough. that crying when i needed to or saying “me too” gave me windows for people to peek into. maybe it did. my friends have held my hair while i was throwing up, picked up facetime calls to see me breaking down, reassured me i needed to let things go until i eventually did – at least verbally. i know i’m loved, and trust me, friendship like that was the stuff of my childhood dreams.
i dreamt of something else too – the kind of love that doesn't need distance to recover from time spent together, that’s honest, that you don’t outgrow. i dreamt that someone would become my partner not just for the time being, but for life.
at 24, i questioned if it was achievable. that sounds silly, because 24 is so young, but i just didn’t know if i could be open enough to let someone in fully. i didn’t want someone in my room because reminiscences of my childhood haunted me, and i was too depressed to tidy. i was too self-conscious to be naked, physically and emotionally. although i could cry no problem, my darkest thoughts were twisted and buried – i was only interested in sharing them if i could dress them up as poetry or prose, with strangers being the primary readers.
and then,
i met her.
she seemed to fall for me so quickly, i couldn’t help be aware i could lose her just as fast. and yet, for no logical reason – only intuition and an overwhelming feeling of safety in her arms – i believed she’d stay.
i believed we both would.
it’s spectacular and unnerving all at once, to find someone who looks past the first impressions and the social mask, and who doesn’t waver when they see the not-so-pretty parts of you. the parts that are anxious, annoyed, stubborn or non-verbal. in those moments, you exist in your panic or exhaustion or hunger or whatever the problem is, and you can’t romanticise yourself from afar. you just pray to sappho that you’re not too much, and that you’ll still be beautiful to them when you awake the next morning.
it’s the morning, and you’re not too much, and you’re still beautiful. you’re enough, and you’re loved beyond infatuation and potential. you’re loved in the grit, in the worry, in the weeks apart and the ones together.
you hold hands as waves come and when one of you slips, the other tightens their grip. skin-to-skin, souls bare, lives and plans intertwined.
this is what i was scared of? someone who spins me in the street, makes me laugh, and wants to hold me without expecting anything back. someone who wants to take care of me, and acts like my chin hairs are fairy dust. someone who wants the best for me – for us.
she tidied the room that haunted me, and got me new bedsheets. she bought my family presents and came with me to my friends’ events. she told me i was perfect as i let my guard down gently. more and more of my tears have become happy ones, as i look at parts of my life with wonder. i look at her with wonder.
vulnerability. it’s still something i work on, but it’s here, and it’s a gift.
there’s something so haunting about this—not loud or dramatic, just quietly devastating. it felt like walking through a memory you thought you’d forgotten until it shows up out of nowhere and takes your breath for a second. the kind of piece you finish and then just… sit with. thank you for writing this. i don’t think i’ll forget it.
This really touched me. I didn’t expect to connect so much, but I did—deeply. The way you described vulnerability, not as a sudden event but as something that unfolds gently with the right person, felt so real. I’ve been learning how to open up too, and reading this gave me a sense of comfort and hope. Your words are beautiful—thank you for sharing them. I’m really glad I read this tonight.