How vulnerable is too vulnerable?
Trying to find balance.
Last week I wrote about uprooting, the act in which one constantly starts and disregards new projects, or focuses their energy on, let’s say, redesigning their website, instead of doing new work that could go on the website. This idea resonated with so many of you, who left thoughtful comments about how you uproot.
As I read such open and personal comments I wondered if I withheld the vulnerable version of that post: The post that shared how deep I can fall into cycles of uprooting, the time that slips away from me as I do it, the shame it causes. Could I have — or should I have — shared more?
Which brings us to today’s topic: Vulnerability.
In my people-pleasing days, I tended to overshare. This is a common people-pleasing behavior, because oversharing is a way to create a (false) connection with somebody. Often to seek validation you tell self-deprecating, TMI jokes or stories in hopes people will like you more. Aftewards, of course, you get stressed about why you shared too much and wonder if it made other people like you less. A very fun cycle.
When I started recognizing my people-pleasing and creating better boundaries for myself, I started cringing at the whole fucking internet. Every “funny” person on Twitter no longer seemed funny to me, but instead like they had unchecked mental illness. I found it deranged when essayists would explain exactly what’s wrong with their marriage. Is publicly complaining about your husband really worth a byline in The New York Times? Just the the idea of writing something like that humiliated me. (It’s also important to note that there is a difference between vulnerable writing that is withholding and smart and nuanced, and writing that strives for vulnerability but instead ends up as self-indulgent oversharing.)
I found myself wanting to keep everything hidden. I cringed over all the dumb personal stuff I’d shared on Twitter or in podcasts or videos. I wanted to erase myself from the internet and take it all back.
Then, as a totally natural extension of these feelings, I started a Substack. It makes no sense, but I’m a writer. I’m drawn to write, and despite the inherent inner conflict, I’m drawn to sharing myself with the world. I want you to be here, to read, to relate. I’ve shared vulnerable truths on here, and those stories always resonate most deeply. After all, the best art is vulnerable. But my instinct remains to hold onto myself. Most of the time, I crave living in a cabin in the woods without social media, with no way to compare myself to others, or invite others’ judgment into my life.
A balance is possible and lies in the question: How can we write vulnerably without giving too much of ourselves away?
In
’s Wild, she shares an extremely personal detail: After her mother died and was cremated, Cheryl ate a bit of her ashes. It’s the detail I remember most from her book.I saw Cheryl Strayed give a talk to promote Hulu’s adaptation of Tiny, Beautiful Things earlier this year, and she shared that this detail from Wild was written into the TV show, and then later cut — deemed “too far.”
“I knew it was too far when I wrote it in Wild,” she said. “And I knew it was too far when we filmed it for Tiny Beautiful Things.” But she continued to explain that sometimes it needs to be too far, because it’s true, and it’s important, and other people will relate to it. Strayed shared that following the release of Wild, so many people told her that they too had swallowed a bit of a loved one’s ashes.
There are some collective truths that everybody is too afraid to share. When you are willing to be brave, other people feel less alone. Without that detail, Wild wouldn’t have been the same book. In some ways, that detail is the book. Strayed ultimately regretted letting the studio cut it from the TV adaptation of Tiny, Beautiful, Things.
Art requires deep, terrifying vulnerability. Sometimes when we’re creatively blocked, it’s because we’re in so much pain that we can’t possibly fathom making ourselves even more vulnerable than we already feel. Those are times for healing, not creating. This is exactly why it’s years after the traumatic thing that we’re finally ready to write about it. When that happens, you must do two things:
Crack open your heart and offer it to your readers.
Set your own boundary determining how much you’re willing to give. What is “too far” for you? Is that why you must share it, or why you must keep it to yourself? Chances are you can share the shocking detail — the eating of the ashes — without selling out a loved one, exposing a secret that isn’t yours to reveal, or sharing an experience that you haven’t fully processed. Withhold with care, and share with thoughtful abandon.
We chose a hard business. Luckily, you are brave.