After Trying to Be “Perfect” for 22 Years, I Tried Vulnerability

By publishing vulnerable stories, “oversharing” on social media, and owning my truth, I traded judgment for compassion.

Racing through the playground in a ruffled dress at five years old, I wore a puffy pink bow in my hair. That cute little boy in my Sunday school class made my face pink too. A determined little girl, I found a reason to get close to my crush, spotting him at the top of the long slide. Hoping he would notice me, I smiled shyly. Then I experienced rejection for the first time as he left me standing alone, running to play with the other kids.

I stood there frozen, stunned. Then, my head tightened. My face went from white to red. Am I not good enough for him? Is my family not rich or established enough?

This early response to rejection preceded the next two decades of self-judgment and isolation. I blamed myself when things went wrong; I kept my feelings to myself. This lack of openness mixed with toxic environments significantly damaged my self-worth, leading to perfectionism and self-destructive behaviors.

It turns out I’m not alone. Most of us have low self-compassion (~70%). When we struggle, we treat ourselves harshly, in a way we would never treat a friend. Yet, judging ourselves and staying quiet leads to shame. More than guilt which means, “I did something bad,” shame tells us, “I am bad.” When we can’t talk about our problems, we become rigid. This rigidity leads to more issues, i.e., perfectionism, codependency, and even suicide.

We need to practice sharing, receiving, and honoring our vulnerability; it’s probably our single, most powerful tool for real connection. When I discovered Brené Brown’s vulnerability research, I sobbed because it seemed so simple. People who feel connected aren’t perfect, rich, and popular. They believe they deserve love and share themselves even when it’s hard. That’s it.

Over the last eight months, I decided to try vulnerability. I published dozens of emotional essays, including my experiences with emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, painful self-discoveries, and my numerous flaws. I began oversharing my stories on social media and owning my truth in relationships, even when it seemed embarrassing. In my greatest act of self-compassion, I released 26 years of emotional narcissistic abuse.

I will no longer live in shame for being myself. I will not hide my pain in silence. Today, I still struggle with judging myself and being fully authentic, but I had a breakthrough: I deserve compassion even in my darkest moments. We all do.

How I Started Trying Vulnerability

Choosing vulnerability is not like flipping a switch; it feels more like building a new muscle. I began my vulnerability practice by sharing stories and songs that seemed slightly risky. I injected bits of myself into the art but kept the tone light-hearted.

The first song I shared on social media, When the Sun Comes, feels upbeat, even whimsical. I sing about the weather as a metaphor for changing emotions; the darkest part I included was about “being swept away with all these worries.” Though it seemed pretty low on my vulnerability scale, sharing my budding music skills felt challenging.

Early last year, I shared an article about How to Tell People ‘No’, which felt socially acceptable to discuss. I shared very little about my personal experience, hiding behind an ongoing “we.” Yet, even sharing one line about my struggle with self-worth, self-esteem and saying no felt scary. But I took a small step towards self-acceptance, releasing the post onto the internet,

Slowly, I developed a writing practice, following my instincts as I chose each topic.

Last December, I channeled years of sexist anger into a single post called “7 Painful Reasons all Women Should be Angry.” I revealed bits of deeply vulnerable personal stories, then filled the article with research to build credibility. Though I spent hours in flow writing this article, I struggled when it was time to hit “submit,” sharing my work with publication editors. Did I go too far or share too much? Will people think I’m weak? Do people want to read about something so dark? This feminist post became one of my most well-received articles.

Today I often edit my creative content based on how much raw emotion I poured into it. Was I brave in this article? Did I share the story only I can tell?

Owning my truth in relationships scares me. In the past, I often shape-shifted to be what people want or need. Yet, fragmenting myself never worked out too well in the long-run. When I share my truth, I recall Brené Brown’s advice: “Clear is kind; unclear is unkind.” I remind myself: I am only responsible for my actions and emotions, not theirs. As a result, I spend more time getting to know myself and less time with people who don’t respect my feelings. It’s a win, win.

What Happened After Practicing Vulnerability

The truth is, I don’t always feel like a “success story.” I still experience self-doubt and second guess myself. But I know that my creative process is working. Here are some changes I’ve noticed in myself:

I believe a higher power guides me when I listen.
I make more intuitive decisions and feel aligned more often.
I apologize for myself less often and feel more confident.
I stopped trying to “fix” people and addressed my codependency patterns.
I judge myself less and give myself more rest.
I enjoy myself more often, feeling more engaged in life.
I feel my emotions more deeply, both the pleasant and unpleasant ones.
I engage in “numbing” behaviors far less often.
I notice more opportunities and gifts from unexpected places.
I take my desires seriously, indulging more often.
I created a prettier and more peaceful living space.
I feel more comfortable being myself.

For the most part, others give me positive feedback as well. Sometimes people share heartfelt, personal stories with me. You never know who’s reading and how your work might impact others.

People deeply connected with my shadow work articles. An old friend sent me a long message (months after I shared the post) about how my shadow work journey inspired him to explore his unconscious psyche. He began to understand his “abandonment trauma” and the “barriers [he] put up when interacting with people in daily life.”

“Now, when I have something to say or ask, I say it more freely, and so many good things are coming out of that,” he shared. “My numbing behaviors have radically decreased! Thank you! Your shadow work article was the bridge.”

Additionally, I’ve received long apologies from ex-partners, vulnerable stories from strangers, deeper connections with acquaintances, and had many meaningful conversations with new and old friends. Here are a few kind words people have shared:

“Thank you for continuing to be a source of inspiration that reminds me that we humans can do anything we set our minds to!” from an old friend who lives across the country.
“This is great. If and when you write a book, I want a signed copy!” wrote an acquaintance I met at an obstacle race.
“You are a great writer, so talented! Thanks for the tips! I need to do some thinking now! Time to make some changes!” said an old family friend.
“I’m so happy for you and proud,” shared one of my high school English teachers.
“I’ve never related to something so deeply. It’s like I wrote it myself,” shared a stranger, responding to one of my most vulnerable articles on narcissist abuse.
“Profound, ambitious, and actionable. Your writing seems so personal and effective; it brings out the angst I am sure many women feel. Your writing is so lucid; it’s almost poetic! I am bookmarking this for future referral,” shared a man, referring to one of my feminist articles.

When I decided to be brave, I created a positive ripple effect on the people around me. I know I am moving in the right direction. Many others confirmed this for me.

How I Approach Being Vulnerable

“Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome,” said Brené Brown.

When I shared a brave story about perfectionism, a close family friend (who I deeply respected) shamed me in my Facebook page comments. She said my writing was ridiculous, immature, and untrue, referring to a reflection of my childhood. Though I promptly deleted the comments, I remember feeling like someone had slapped me in the face. Even though I knew how to handle criticism, her words caused pain.

People have also shared pitying comments that felt belittling. Publication editors have rejected many of my articles. I unknowingly made tons of blaring formatting mistakes in early writing. Like many, my creative progress happens slowly, in a spiral motion.

These days, I focus more on speaking my truth than trying to be “perfect” or “nice.” Seeing how people respond to my vulnerability clarifies who wants the best for me and who doesn’t. After spending a long time being abused by people who said they loved me, this clarity feels good.

I view hurtful responses as rejection in the right direction. If people in my network share cheap criticism, I can block them. If publications reject my writing, I revise the article or find a more aligned publication. If I make formatting “mistakes,” I remind myself that “failing” means I tried something new, that I was brave.

Here are some ways I protect my vulnerability from emotional abuse and hurtful criticism:

I get clear on whose opinions matter. Brené Brown suggests creating a shortlist of the people who will be there when you fall on your face. These are the people who love you and build you up when you make mistakes. For people who criticize safely behind their screens, I don’t worry too much about their opinions.
I process criticism directly. Personal criticisms or “attacks” physically hurt. I regularly feel and process this negativity using Julia Cameron’s recommendations. I nurture myself, acknowledge anything helpful, defend my work, and continue creating. Having a strategy for criticism gives me more confidence to be vulnerable.
I let go of my ego. I believe creativity and vulnerability are spiritual pursuits. I don’t own these ideas or the way I craft my stories. I show up as an instrument and try to let the art shine through. This mindset helps me avoid the “creative genius” pitfall many artists experience. Elizabeth Gilbert explains this concept well in her famous TED talk.
I consider the costs upfront. What will being vulnerable in this way cost me? What will it cost me if I don’t share? Is there a benefit for not sharing this information? On several occasions, I’ve noticed the reward for not being vulnerable is “playing small” or “staying safe.” Though courage doesn’t feel safe, it always feels right.
I practice asserting boundaries. As a recovering codependent person, setting boundaries feels challenging. You have to believe that you, your emotions, and your desires matter to protect them. Now, I feel more comfortable blocking people, deleting comments, and saying no when I mean it. Being nice does not justify doing something that doesn’t feel right.
I trust the process. I used to be a highly goal-oriented person. But creativity isn’t a linear process, and discipline only gets you so far. I respect the often playful, spiral creative process. Being vulnerable doesn’t always work in the way you might expect, and I still mess up. But I know my mistakes are a necessary part of the journey.

Each time I hesitate to hit send, publish, or submit, I experience an inner dialogue between judgment and compassion. The voice of self-judgment tells me: “You’re not good enough. You don’t know enough. You’re pathetic. No one cares. You’re just looking for attention.” These judgments developed in childhood as a way to keep me safe from criticism.

But now, more often, I choose courage over comfort. I’m tired of playing small to feel safe; taking risks that lead to connection and fulfillment matters more.

When I access the voice of compassion, I hear: “Your stories are healing. People need to hear this. You are a gift. You and your feelings matter. You are a blessing in this world.”

Being vulnerable is f***ing hard. But I will not stay quiet to appease people who do not love or respect me. These vulnerable stories are my truth.

Closing Thoughts

Australian comedian Hannah Gadsby brought vulnerability to the public eye when she turned her stand-up special into trauma sharing halfway through. She ended her jaw-dropping “Nanette” performance with “My story is your story.”

Though she talks about being a minority, physical and sexual abuse, and patriarchal pains, her message seems much more significant. Fear rests at the heart of our collective closed-mindedness. We judge ourselves and others out of fear. Yet, when we choose compassion, we feel connected.

Trying to be perfect led me to deep loneliness, ongoing shame, and severe self-judgment. Even though I seemed externally successful, I carried deep pain beneath the surface.

Now I choose vulnerability as a lifestyle. Changing myself to make others love me doesn’t work. Giving myself greater self-acceptance does. I deserve compassion.

“You either walk inside your story and own it, or you stand outside your story and hustle for your worthiness.” — Brené Brown