“You can’t heal what you won’t allow yourself to feel.” ~Unknown

I used to act strong all the time. On the outside, I looked like I had it all together. I was competent, composed, and capable. I was the one other people came to for advice or support.

The stickiness was that my version of strength created distance. I couldn’t allow myself to appear weak because I was terrified that if I let myself break down, I wouldn’t be able to pull myself back together.

Maybe underneath it all, I was so fragile I might actually break.

So I held it in. All of it—my grief, my fear, my loneliness. This is what strong people do, right?

I learned to be strong early because I had to.

My mother was depressed and suicidal for the younger years of my life. From a young age, I felt like it was up to me to keep her alive. I became the caretaker, the one who made things okay, even when nothing was.

My father left before I was born. I didn’t meet him until I was six, and when I did, it wasn’t safe. He was abusive and schizophrenic. One time, he tried to strangle me. That moment embedded something deep: every moment is a risk. To survive, I learned to stay alert, in control, and numb.

Later, my mum entered a same-sex relationship—a bold move in the eighties, when that kind of love wasn’t accepted. Her partner, a former homicide detective turned trauma therapist, was emotionally volatile and narcissistic. My home didn’t feel safe. There wasn’t a lot of room for me to be a child.

So, I became hyper-responsible. A perfectionist. A fixer. I micromanaged not only my life but also the emotions of others when I could. My version of “strength” became what I hid behind and my identity.

But underneath it all, I was scared. My “strength” was survival, not freedom.

Years later, I moved to Australia and found myself with a friend in a power vinyasa yoga class. It was hot, sweaty, and intense. I hated it. The carpet smelled. The teacher talked the entire time. I was angry.

And then it hit me: I was always angry.

Beneath the appearance of having it all together, I was exhausted and resentful. The yoga mat didn’t create these feelings—it just revealed what I had been carrying all along.

That night, something shifted. I realized my “strength” wasn’t really strength; it was my wall. A wall that had kept me safe but also kept me from feeling.

So, I kept going back. First to yoga, then to a deeper journey of healing.

The process came in layers.

Along my healing journey, I explored many different modalities. The first was EFT (emotional freedom technique), where I touched emotions I had buried for decades. Later, kinesthetic processing showed me that it was safe to feel everything—every emotion, every memory—through my body. This was the beginning of softness integrating into my life, not just as an idea, but as a lived experience.

For so long, my strength had been armor—the courage to survive. But softness opened something new: the courage to thrive, because my heart was no longer closed.

There was no single breakthrough, no magic moment.

With each layer that fell away, I began to replace resistance with openness, walls with connection. Slowly, I came to trust that softness wasn’t something to fear—it was something I could lean into.

And what I learned is this: my healing required softness, which meant vulnerability and allowing myself to fully feel.

Softness isn’t weakness.

It’s staying open when everything in you wants to shut down.

It’s allowing yourself to be seen without the mask.

It’s choosing presence over performance.

True power isn’t control. It’s vulnerability. It’s feeling your way through life and trusting yourself—trusting your thoughts, your decisions, and your impulses so you stop second-guessing and stop relying on constant external validation. Trust allows you to act from clarity instead of fear.

It’s trusting your body, noticing what nourishes you versus what depletes you, and setting boundaries without guilt. It’s trusting life’s natural flow, letting go of the pressure to force things to happen according to a strict schedule. It’s trusting your own inner truth. Trust and softness go hand in hand; the more you trust yourself, the more you can stay open and present without fear.

If you’ve been holding it all together for too long, maybe strength doesn’t look like pushing through. Maybe it looks like slowing down. Like taking a breath. Like feeling what’s been waiting to be felt.

And maybe, just maybe, your sensitivity isn’t something to hide or harden.

Maybe your sensitivity is your superpower.

In a world that teaches us to be strong, brave, and unshakable, we can forget that our greatest wisdom often comes in stillness.

It comes when we soften. When we listen. When we let go of who we think we should be and come home to who we already are.

Strength isn’t about being unbreakable. It’s about being real.

When I started listening to myself, I realized how often I had ignored my own needs and desires, pushing through life according to what I thought I “should” do. I learned to honor my feelings, trust my instincts, and make choices that nourished me instead of drained me. As a result, my relationships deepened, my confidence grew, and I found a sense of ease and flow I never thought possible.

Sometimes the greatest thing you can do for yourself is listen to the quiet, unchanging wisdom within you and trust what you hear.

About Shauna Hawkes

Shauna Hawkes is a women’s embodiment mentor, Gene Keys guide, and yoga teacher with over fifteen years of experience. She helps women at a crossroads break free from self-sabotage, find clarity, and step confidently into the next chapter of their lives through mentorship, workshops, yoga retreats, and Gene Keys readings. Curious to discover more about yourself? Take her free archetypes quiz at shaunahawkes.com or click this link direct – Take Quiz

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“Vulnerability is not oversharing. It’s sharing with people who have earned the right to hear our story.” ~Brené Brown

Earlier this year, I found myself in a place I never imagined: locked in a psychiatric emergency room, wearing a paper wristband, surrounded by strangers in visible distress. I wasn’t suicidal. I hadn’t harmed anyone. I’d simply told the truth—and it led me there.

What happened began, in a way, with writing.

I’m in my seventies, and I’ve lived a full life as a filmmaker, teacher, father, and now a caregiver for my ninety-six-year-old mother. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve also felt something slipping. A quiet sense that I’m no longer seen. Not with cruelty—just absence. Like the world turned the page and forgot to bring me along.

One day in therapy, I said aloud what I’d been afraid to name: “I feel like the world’s done with me.”

My therapist listened kindly. “Why don’t you write about it?” she said.

So I did.

I began an essay about age, invisibility, and meaning—what it feels like to move through a culture that doesn’t always value its elders. I called it The Decline of the Elders, and it became one of the hardest things I’ve ever written.

Each sentence pulled something raw out of me. I wasn’t just writing; I was reliving. My mind circled through memories I hadn’t fully processed, doubts I hadn’t admitted, losses I hadn’t grieved. I’d get up, pace, sit down again, write, delete, rewrite. It was as if I were opening an old wound that had never really healed. The pain was real—and so was the urgency to understand it.

Then came the eye injection—a regular treatment for macular degeneration. This time, it didn’t go well. My eye throbbed, burned, and wouldn’t stop watering. Eventually, both eyes blurred. Still, I sat there trying to write, blinking through physical and emotional pain, trying to finish what I had started.

Everything hurt—my vision, my body, my sense of purpose. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live with what I was feeling.

So I called 911.

“This isn’t an emergency,” I told the dispatcher. “I just need to talk to someone. A hotline or counselor—anything.”

She connected me to the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline—a lifeline for people in imminent danger of harming themselves. If you are suicidal, please call. It can save your life. My mistake was using it for something it’s not designed for.

 I spoke with a kind young man and told him the truth: I was in therapy. I was writing something painful. I was overwhelmed but safe. I just needed a voice on the other end. Someone to hear me.

Then came the knock at the door.

Three police officers. Calm. Polite. But firm.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m not a danger. I just needed someone to talk to.”

That didn’t matter. Protocol had been triggered.

They escorted me to the squad car and drove me to the psychiatric ER. I felt powerless and embarrassed, unsure how a simple call had escalated so quickly.

They took me to the psychiatric ER at LA County General.

No beds. Just recliner chairs lined up in a dim, humming room. I was searched. My belongings were taken. I was assigned a chair and handed a bean burrito. They offered medication if I needed it. One thin blanket. A buzzing TV that never turned off.

I didn’t want sedation. I didn’t want a distraction. I just sat with it—all of it.

And around me, others sat too: a man curled into himself, shaking; a young woman staring blankly into space; someone muttering unintelligibly to no one at all. Real pain. Raw pain. People who seemed completely lost in it.

That’s when the shame hit me.

I didn’t belong here, I thought. I wasn’t like them. I had a home. A therapist. A sense of self, however fractured. I hadn’t tried to hurt anyone. I’d just asked to be heard. And yet there I was—taking up space, resources, attention—while others clearly needed it more.

But that too was a kind of false separation. Who was I to say I didn’t belong? I’d called in desperation. I’d lost perspective. My crisis may have looked different, but it was real.

Eventually, a nurse came to interview me. I told her everything—the writing, the injection, the spiral I’d been caught in. She listened. And sometime after midnight, they let me go.

My wife picked me up. Quiet. Unsure. I didn’t blame her. I barely knew what had just happened myself.

Later that night, I sat again in the chair where it had all started. My eyes ached less. But I was stunned. And strangely clear.

The experience hadn’t destroyed me. It had initiated me.

I also realized how naïve I’d been. I hadn’t researched alternatives. I hadn’t explored my real options. I’d reached for the most visible solution out of emotional exhaustion. That desperation wasn’t weakness—it was a symptom of a deeper need I hadn’t fully acknowledged.

And I learned something I’ll never forget:

Vulnerability is powerful, but it’s not always safe.

I used to think that honesty was always the best path. That if I opened up, someone would meet me there with compassion. And often that’s true. But not always. Systems aren’t built for subtlety. Institutions can’t always distinguish between emotional honesty and risk.

And not every person is a safe place for our truth. Some people repeatedly minimize our pain or dismiss our feelings. We might long for their validation, but protecting ourselves means recognizing when someone isn’t willing or able to give it.

Since then, I’ve kept writing. I’ve kept feeling. But I’ve also learned to be more discerning.

Now I ask myself:

• Is this the right moment for this truth?
• Is this person or space able to hold it?
• Am I seeking connection—or rescue?

There’s no shame in needing help. But there is wisdom in learning how to ask for it, and who to ask.

I still believe in truth. I still believe in tenderness. But I also believe in learning how to protect what’s sacred inside us.

So if you’re someone who feels deeply—who writes, reflects, or breaks open in unexpected ways—this is what I want you to know:

You are not weak. You are not broken. But you are tender. And tenderness needs care, not containment—care from people you can trust to honor it.

Give your truth a place where it can be held, not punished. And if that place doesn’t yet exist, build it—starting with one safe person, one honest conversation, one page in your journal. Word by word. Breath by breath.

Because your pain is real. Your voice matters.

And when shared with care, your truth can still light the way.

About Tony Collins

Tony Collins is a documentary filmmaker, educator, and writer whose work explores creativity, caregiving, and personal growth. He is the author of: Windows to the Sea—a moving collection of essays on love, loss, and presence. Creative Scholarship—a guide for educators and artists rethinking how creative work is valued. Tony writes to reflect on what matters—and to help others feel less alone.

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“Emotions are not problems to be solved. They are signals to be felt.” ~Vironika Tugaleva

We’ve been taught to package our emotions like fast food—served quick, tidy, and with a smile. Americanized feelings. Digestible. Non-threatening. Always paired with productivity.

If you’re sad, journal it. If you’re angry, regulate it. If you’re overwhelmed, fix it with a three-step plan and a green juice. And if that doesn’t work? Try again. You probably missed a step.

This is how we sell emotional healing in the West—marketed like a self-improvement product. Seven-minute abs. Seven habits. Five love languages. Follow the formula. Find the peace.

But what if the formula is the lie?

As a mental health therapist, I’ve lived it on both sides. I’ve sat in the client chair, feeling broken because my sadness didn’t resolve after enough gratitude lists. And I’ve sat across from clients who whisper their grief like a confession, wondering what they did wrong because they still feel something.

They aren’t doing it wrong. They’re just human.

Healing isn’t about “doing” our feelings. It’s about learning how to actually feel them—without the compulsion to justify them or translate them into something useful.

You owe no explanation for your feelings.

And still, even knowing that, I get caught in it too.

I, too, am a product of this culture—a place where feelings are only tolerated when packaged properly. Not too loud. Not too long. Preferably resolved by morning.

Because of that, there are days I feel a deep aloneness. But I’ve come to realize the aloneness isn’t a flaw—it’s a longing. A longing to be witnessed in the fullness of my humanity. Not fixed. Not analyzed. Just seen.

I don’t need validation. I don’t want to defend how I feel. I just want space. Presence. Room to let the feeling pass through me.

The loneliness reminds me how deeply I’ve been shaped by a culture that fears emotions unless they come with an action plan.

So I’ve learned to hide mine from most people—not because I’m ashamed, but because they’re afraid. People are afraid of their own feelings, so of course they’ll fear the vulnerability of mine. Most people in this country don’t know what to do with real feelings. And the doing has become the problem.

That fear of being too much or too messy is rooted deep not only in American culture but also me.

That part inside me judges the part of me that feels sadness at times. She calls it weakness. Not out of cruelty, but out of fear. She believes that if she can shame that part, a much younger, more authentic part that lives inside me, she won’t risk being shamed by others.

I’m sure many other Americans have this exact same part inside them as well.

We have to be tough, suck it up—whatever that even means.

The part of me that gets sad. The part that gets afraid. The part that feels lonely. These are parts I exiled long ago. But I am beginning to bring them home to me. The parts that are terrified of taking up space. They don’t know yet how precious they are.

They’re not just tender. They’re wise. They’re the intuitive, empathetic, deeply alive parts of me. The parts our culture has spent countless centuries trying to forget.

But I won’t forget those parts. Not anymore.

I speak to them now, with clarity and compassion. I tell them: You are allowed to feel without defending it. You are allowed to take up space without apologizing for the weight of your truth. Expand. Don’t shrink.

The sad one. The scared one. The one who wants to hide. The one who’s learning to stay. Even the critic. They can all exist inside me—side by side—without contradiction. Without shame. Without needing to explain themselves to anyone.

I will no longer betray them because others betray their own parts and project their self-betrayal onto me.

There’s a whole galaxy inside me, and there’s a whole galaxy inside of you. Of course no one else will fully understand it.

What matters is that I do.

And I’m learning… I’m not here to be understood. I’m here to simply be me—and to allow all that resides in me to be, too.

And maybe you are, too.

About Allison Briggs

Allison Jeanette Briggs is a therapist, writer, and speaker specializing in helping women heal from codependency, childhood trauma, and emotional neglect. She blends psychological insight with spiritual depth to guide clients and readers toward self-trust, boundaries, and authentic connection. Allison is the author of the upcoming memoir On Being Real: Healing the Codependent Heart of a Woman and shares reflections on healing, resilience, and inner freedom at on-being-real.com.

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Here’s what’s true. We are not designed to live hidden, isolated, or self-sufficient lives. God created us for connection – with Him and with each other. In fact, you don’t have to look far to find evidence of this truth in the field of neuroscience, which shows our brains are shaped by and thrive on connection. Psychology also reveals our emotional and psychological well-being depend on connection.

With that in mind, let’s explore what the Bible says about God’s design for relationships, what makes us avoid being vulnerable, what’s needed to connect with others, and the life-giving benefits of walking through both joy and hardship in community.

God’s Design for Relationships

From the very beginning, God’s Word tells us we are made in the image of a relational God. In Genesis 1:26–27, God said, “Let Us make mankind in Our image, according to Our likeness.” The “Us” in that verse is extremely important. It shows that we were created from relationship (Father, Son, Holy Spirit) for relationship. God is, by nature, relational. Since we are made in His image, so are we. Sit with that for a little while and don’t rush past this great insight.

Genesis 2:18 drives this point home: “It is not good for the man to be alone.” Even in the Garden of Eden where he walked with God, Adam’s aloneness was “not good.” This isn’t just about marriage. It’s about how we are wired for human connection. We are created with a need for relationship, for companionship, and for sharing life together.

The Bible is full of “one another” commands. As children of God, we are to love one another, encourage one another, bear one another’s burdens, and pray for one another. These commands show us how to live out the Christian life.

God’s design for relationships is further reflected in the New Testament. When asked about the greatest commandment, Jesus replied in Matthew 22:37-39, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ … And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’” We are designed to express Christ’s life and love in us through our relationships with other people.

What Makes Us Avoid Vulnerability

Despite this clear biblical calling to connect, many of us still hesitate to intentionally find safe people to “do life” with and share our own needs. We fear judgment and may even show up wearing an invisible mask, smiling on the outside while silently suffering inside.

Another very real obstacle to connecting with others is the reality that not all relationships with other humans are safe or life-giving. If you’ve ever been hurt by someone you trusted, you know how hard it can be to trust again. Remember that you don’t need to share everything all at once and that trust is earned over time. Trust grows where there is a space for the other person to share as well. There’s a beautiful balance of giving and receiving. Vulnerability can only exist with people and in places where we feel safe.

Being vulnerable is a place we don’t like to find ourselves if we’re being honest. It seems weak and helpless and exposed. We don’t want to burden others or we’re afraid they may not understand what we’re going through. God designed us to need Him and others. It’s not because we are weak, but because we’re human. Depending on your personality type, opening up to others may be harder for you than some. That’s okay. When you share the ups and downs of life with those you trust, it becomes an opportunity for personal growth. 

What’s Needed for Connection

In order to share our stories, our joys, our struggles, and our spiritual journeys, we need a few key things. First of all, we need to find safe people who listen without judgment, share their own struggles, and keep what’s shared confidential. 

Connecting with others takes time and intentionality. We also need margin in our schedules to be available for others and to let others into our world. This may look like a weekly coffee date, a small life group or Bible study, a consistently scheduled Zoom call, or even a regular meet-up to walk together at a local park. 

Genuine connection flows from Christ’s life in us and is expressed through love, patience, and kindness. It notices when someone is weary and steps in with care. This isn’t about fixing one another. It’s about showing up and loving well.

What Makes Connection Important

We were created for connection with our Heavenly Father and with other  people to celebrate the mountaintop moments as well as walk through the dark valleys. When someone texts you to say, “You’re not alone,” or celebrates your wins with no jealousy or competition, this is where your deepest need for connection is met by others.

Walking together through life is a beautiful way to sharpen, challenge, and remind each other that God is good in the joy and in the sorrow. Having someone to call, text or sit with makes a big difference. These life-giving moments help us experience God’s love in tangible ways. Connecting with others gives us a community of prayer warriors and encouragers who believe in us and remind us of who we are in Christ. They also hold us accountable to pursue our God-given callings. 

Let’s build those life-giving connections and invite others into the real parts of our lives, not just the picture-perfect moments. This may look like a conscious decision to build connections with other adults, being intentional to authentically engage with others, and share what’s going on in our lives and families. Walking together through laughter and tears, in the hard and in the good, is what it looks like to live out our God-given design for connection.

Related Resource: How to Experience More of Jesus

Faith often becomes a checklist—prayer, scripture study, ministry—rather than a living, breathing relationship with Jesus. In this episode of the Unhurried Living Podcast, Alan Fadling speaks with bestselling author and teacher John Eldredge about shifting from a performance-based spiritual life to one rooted in presence, intimacy, and encounter.

We talk about how to slow down in a world that values hustle, how to rediscover wonder in the midst of cynicism, and how to create personal rhythms that foster authentic connection with Jesus. If you long to experience Jesus—really—this conversation is for you. f this episode helps you recenter your work and life on God, be sure to subscribe to Unhurried Living on Apple or Spotify so you never miss an episode!

Photo Credit: ©Getty Images/katleho Seisa

Renee Bethel, author of Finding Me: A Woman’s Guide to Learning More About Herself, is a Professional Christian Life Coach and a Certified Enneagram Coach. Her passion is guiding growth-minded Christian women to step into their God-given identity so they can live more authentically and confidently in the freedom of who they are in Christ. If you’re ready to change how you view yourself and learn how God sees you, request her resource, Who am I – from God’s Perspective?

But even angels aren’t immune to darkness. There was a time when I found myself trapped in an abusive relationship, one that slowly took control of everything, even my sacred space online. He isolated me, cut me off from friends, from joy, and from connection. All I had left was YouTube. I turned the camera on and created a portal out of the pain. I’d sit in front of the lens and speak into the void. I told myself, I’m going to go find my friends. They’re in the ether. That’s when YouTube became my diary, a sanctuary and a stage where my vulnerability could breathe. There were times I stopped posting altogether. I let the illusions of social media convince me I wasn’t beautiful enough, but over time, I’ve come to realize I come in seasons. Some seasons, I bear less fruit than others, but that doesn’t make these moments any less special. These offerings, my vulnerability, my voice, my softness, have always been rooted in something deeper within me.