My natural inclination is to maintain the illusion that I have it all together. I would prefer people to look on and see someone who is confident, competent, and self-assured. I would prefer them to see my successes, to perceive perfection, to find no cracks in the facade.
Of course, reality is far from this image I would care to project. My house is not perfectly clean. I get stains on my clothes. I still cannot write words like “maintenance” without verifying their spelling. My child is not always perfectly behaved, and, if I’m honest, neither am I. There are some issues or struggles I have more questions about than answers. I wrestle with self-doubt and impostor syndrome, and there are days when simple things provoke stress and anxiety. And this just scratches the surface. I don’t even fully succeed at consistently admitting my imperfections.
I do not have it all together. And I’ve found that I’m not the only one who benefits when I admit and embrace that fact.
Somewhere along the line, I came to believe that I was best able to help people if I didn’t struggle myself. I assumed confidence would invite people to trust me. But in practice, projected perfection alienates more than it invites. When I need someone to confide in, I want someone who understands. I want someone who can empathize with my weakness, someone who can relate to my pain. I need someone with scars. And other people do as well.
I wrote a book about depression. In it, I share some of my own story, some of my own pain and doubt and darkness. At one time, I would have found that vulnerability to be terrifying, but not any more. Because what I have seen is this: the most common voices I hear when I share my own struggles are not those of criticism and shame, but rather ones who say, “me too.” I’ve seen it play out time and time again: vulnerability begets vulnerability. When I muster up the courage to share my story and my struggles, I see other people find the courage to share theirs as well. Leading with vulnerability creates a safe space for others to enter into, and in that safe space we can take a small step toward healing together.
This doesn’t mean that we don’t need to be discerning about when, what, and to whom we share. The reality is that there are some people with whom it is not “safe” to share our most raw pain. There are also times when we aren’t ready to fully disclose a painful season we’re still in the midst of.* And there are some details we may not find appropriate to share with everyone. But these factors are a call for discernment, not for complete silence, and not for faking perfection. Even if you aren’t fully able to share, even the smallest hint or comment, even being slightly more vulnerable than you would be inclined to be, may be enough to give someone else who’s struggling the indication that you’re someone they can trust, someone else who has been (or still is) where they are.
I do not have it all together. And I can confidently say, neither do you. So admit it. And share your story. Yours may just be the story someone else needs to hear.
*As a writer, I once received what I have found in my own experience to be great advice: Be careful what you share publicly about a painful circumstance you’re still currently in the midst of. Don’t share fully (or possibly at all) publicly until you’ve come to enough resolution of your pain that you don’t need your readers to be your therapist and you will not be deeply affected emotionally based on their response (or lack of one). In that season, I wrote privately, and I shared honestly with trusted friends and briefly with those I was acquainted with, but I waited to write/speak publicly until I was in a more stable place.