We are mentally vulnerable in that we have the consciousness to know that we and those we love will die. We not only experience abandonment, we know ahead of time that we are susceptible to being left alone. As a psychologist, I see this existential anxiety in almost every person who walks into my office. We know we are alone; we are on a journey only we can navigate, even when we have help from others.
We are vulnerable to our environment through our dependency and conditioning. We learn early on how our parents, families, and neighbors think and feel. We learn from them the “right” way of behaving, what is considered good, what is bad, what we want to be, who we don't want to be.
We are emotionally vulnerable to loving, hating, and indifference; to a wide range of feelings: sadness, anger, joy, devastation, ecstasy. We can't be open to joy without also being open to pain.
We are vulnerable to each other. The neighbor's loud music or barking dog that keeps us awake. We know the dangers of toxic wastes, nature's furies, and the economic ups and downs around the world. We are aware of the precipice we live within and on.
As women we know additional vulnerabilities—and we know that our vulnerability is seen as a weakness. We are vulnerable because our history of second-class citizenship and our lack of access to education or the circumstances to be self-sufficient and equal made us even more dependent on others than men are.
We have also had our vulnerability reinforced by the dominant culture, which sees us as unfocused, fickle, and too emotional to get the job done well. We know that we are often (yes, still!) perceived as weak, inferior, and dependent, and in many cases we have internalized this view of ourselves. It's no wonder we view our vulnerability as a detriment; it's no wonder we feel we must never show it.
it's our strength
I'd like to suggest that our history of being second-class, our struggles and our innate access to emotions and feelings position us to see our vulnerability as strength and to model that for the world. Instead of defending against the sore spots and tender mercies, we can model how to use them to produce rich and appropriate responses to whatever situation we may find ourselves in, to be far more flexible and versatile in all things.
I am convinced that an underlying reason behind judgments, blaming, threats, alienation, and even violence is the desire to hide our vulnerability—our failures, intimidations, weakness, helplessness. I am convinced that a means of increased psychological and spiritual growth begins with recognizing the insecurities that cause us to lash out in a reaction. As women we can model how being relatively unguarded allows us to respond rather than react, to be open and receptive students of life.
I am not advocating indiscriminate openness or a permanent wearing of your heart on your sleeve. There is a time and place for guardedness and lack of trust; there are times for skepticism and for protecting yourself from some people and circumstances. But it is powerful to know and be comfortable with your own vulnerability and exercise the choice of when to be open or not.
Knowing and admitting that we are insecure, afraid, out of our league, or lost in the woods puts us more in charge of our emotions and our situations. We are much less likely to be blind-sided by our “weaker” emotions. And since much of being resilient is about prevention—taking precautions before being run over by a truck or preparing the home before the earth quakes—it is smart and prudent to become more and more familiar with our vulnerability.
I had been working with my client Carolyn for two years when she began to plan her wedding day, which was fast approaching. As so many women do, she wanted this day to be picture perfect. The man she was marrying was funny and playful, a wonderful complement to her serious approach to life. The setting they chose, a bucolic, open grassy expanse overlooking acres and acres of grapes in the wine country, reflected her sophisticated and cultivated taste. She helped the caterer design an elegant vegetarian meal and chose wild and varied flowers, further adding her personal signature.
When she had first come to see me, Carolyn was just twenty-four years old. Her mother had recently been diagnosed with cancer, and Carolyn was struggling to balance her caretaking role with a busy career as a trial attorney. She felt tremendous pressure to perform well on every front.
A strong, direct, and very capable young lady, Carolyn had always been cast in the adult role in her household, which left her with the double-edged sword of being extremely competent and having many unmet needs. Her mother had been a harsh critic—pushing her to try harder when she felt tired, criticizing her when an A was not an A+, expecting her to hold herself together when the family went through difficult times—and Carolyn had internalized this well. She was more apt to beat herself up for what she did not do for her mother or for when she was not there for her than to cut herself slack because she did so much. She did not truck with weakness or softness. Not surprisingly, then, during her mother's illness Carolyn's stamina was impressive. But her soul was burning out.
She would come into my office absolutely exhausted and having no idea how to relax or let go of some of the responsibilities without feeling guilty or worrying that she was not doing enough to keep her mother alive longer.
One summer evening, she came into my office looking put together, as usual, plunked herself down in the oversized chair, and said, “It's over. Mom died last night.”
Neither of us was expecting it this soon; her mother had rallied so many times before, inspiring hope and optimism in all who cared for her. With my own sadness and surprise showing, I leaned toward her and took her hands in mine as she cried in relief, shock, sorrow, and pain. She could easily cry because she had lost her mother and missed her terribly, but she could not possibly have admitted needing something herself or allowed herself to be taken care of.
As her wedding day approached, Carolyn missed her mother more and more. She would talk about how much her mother would have loved this time, about how she wished she could ask her mother to help her choose a dress and to help her decide which earrings were the perfect match. When she had fights with her fiancé or felt prewedding jitters about her choice of a mate, she longed to have her mother there for a heart-to-heart.
The week before the wedding, Carolyn came to see me, inconsolable. She spoke through tears. “I just know if my mother were alive she would do something very special for me the day of the wedding. It would be something I had not thought of, something that would tell me she was thinking of me on this big day.”
We both knew that there was no one who would or could fill this role for her. Her mother had many friends who loved Carolyn, but she had no desire to turn to them. Only her mother would do, and her mother was not here.
Near the end of the session I said to Carolyn, “I don't mean to be presumptuous, but I am wondering if there is anything I can do?”
Without missing a beat, Carolyn cried harder and asked, “Would you come and see me right before I walk down the aisle?”
I was deeply touched, and my eyes filled as we cried together. It takes profound strength to admit that you need someone when you have been taught that you do not have needs or that the needs you have are wrong or irrelevant in the face of others' needs. By letting down her guard, she could begin to trust that I would be there to “see” her at that archetypal moment before she wed.
I once read about a nun who worked in a rough area of New York. Each evening, before leaving the church for the day, she checked herself for her level of vulnerability. On the days she felt particularly soft, she took a taxi home. Even on the days she was in a stronger frame of mind, she took precautions as she walked the dangerous streets to her bus stop. She did not turn a fool's eye to her circumstances or condition.
On the other hand, I have watched people pull out their stiff upper lip and muscle strength without admitting their vulnerability. This gritting the teeth does not bring resiliency; instead the stiff and muscled “heroine” is brittle and vulnerable to the next thing or person who is stronger and louder.
If we do not allow the vulnerability, the softness, or the tenderness, we are more apt to end up with sharp edges and holes in our heart.