In trying times, making oneself vulnerable is true test of courage
One word kept coming up as I walked from lawn to lawn in Harvey-stricken neighborhoods interviewing people whose worldly treasures sat rotting in the sun. “Blessed.” This is how many people described their feelings as they processed the loss and destruction Hurricane Harvey wrought. A woman in Denver Harbor told me she was blessed to have so many friends bringing water and food, and that a previous storm had prompted her to get flood insurance. Others said they were blessed for the strangers who came to help with cleanup. Some were simply blessed that they got out alive. At first, I shook my head at the emotional strength of these people. And surely, they were strong. But their response made rational sense, too. In trying times, we need hope like a drowning person needs a life raft.
A natural antidote to loss is to count your blessings. Even without the loss, it’s a good ritual that deserves regular practice, with or without a side of cranberry sauce.
Science tells us there is a strong link between gratitude and happiness. This past year, I’ve seen evidence of it in my own life.
We were fortunate that our 90-year-old bungalow in the Heights didn’t flood. But there were plenty of other challenges I never imagined, from battling an insurance company after my father’s cancer diagnosis to navigating my own divorce.
When I hit a dead end, when the pain wouldn’t relent, when the path turned dark, I would take a deep breath, look around and scour the grimness for the cracks of light seeping in. It is always there.
I saw my two amazing daughters, the rock of family support, the endless hearts of friends. I saw my job, which brings meaning to my life, and readers who inspire me every bit as much as they say I inspire them.
And I saw something unexpected: the precious gift of vulnerability.
Anyone familiar with best-selling author and University of Houston professor Brené Brown knows what I mean.
There was once a time when I found it hard to ask for help, or to cry on a friend’s shoulder for fear of burdening her. There was a time I would have been mortified to share with you what I am sharing now.
What Brown’s books have taught me is that true strength doesn’t come from walling ourselves in, but from opening up. For some of us who find it hard to trust, that means lowering the drawbridge we didn’t realize we had constructed.
Vulnerability is the opposite of weakness, Brown argues. It is the foundation of courage because it requires the ability to navigate uncertainty, risk and emotional exposure.
“In all my research’s two-hundred-thousandplus pieces of data, I can’t find a single example of courage that didn’t require vulnerability. Can you, in your life?” Brown writes in her latest book, “Braving the Wilderness.”
Without vulnerability, we can’t confront the pain that may be eating at us. We turn to anger, rage or denial instead. And by denying emotion, Brown writes, we allow it to own us. ‘Foreboding joy’
We also can’t experience true joy, either, she says, because some of us — myself included! — do something in the happiest moments that Brown calls “foreboding joy.” This is the mom waving goodbye to the child leaving for prom while silently fearing “car crash!” We fear the joy will be interrupted by disaster and disappointment so we waste our happiest moments bracing for the worst.
Most profoundly, vulnerability allows us to confront loneliness. It’s a growing problem in this country, as we sort, silo and wall ourselves off from others with the help of technology that promises convenience but only ends up killing connectedness.
Consider these startling findings Brown cites from researchers Julianne HoltLunstad, Timothy B. Smith and J. Bradley Layton, who study social relationships and mortality risk.
“Living with air pollution increases your odds of dying early by 5 percent,” Brown writes. “Living with obesity, 20 percent. Excessive drinking, 30 percent. And living with loneliness? It increases our odds of dying early by 45 percent.”
In my case, the hardest thing about divorce is the loneliness that comes from being away from my children. They have an amazing father, and we agreed that splitting custody was best for the girls.
On lonely nights without them, I coped by picking up books I’d been meaning to read. I got reacquainted with my Pilates mat. I started dancing again — salsa, merengue, even took up tango on Monday nights. My friends listened
But I would not have made it without my friends. In low moments, they stepped in like my own family with love and generosity — and without judgment.
So many helped in the fight to get Dad the best cancer treatment at MD Anderson, and in doing so, they helped save his life. He is cancer-free and adjusting surprisingly well to life with one lung. The week of Dad’s surgery, one friend drove my nephew to his internship in Houston so I could be at the hospital. Another friend and her husband opened up their home to my parents for weeks while Dad recovered.
Others have watched the girls on short notice and cooked impromptu dinners for us. One recently surprised me with thirdrow tickets to “Hamilton” the musical in Los Angeles — an experience so profound it left me battling a minor soundtrack obsession. But hey, at least I’m vulnerable enough to admit it.
Above all, my friends listened, sometimes for hours. Over the phone or over a glass of wine. At noon and in the middle of the night. Through laughter and through tears. Simply, they were there.
But for them to help me, I had to let them. I had to open up, to trust, and in moments when I wanted to hide, I had to reach out and look for the light.
It was there for me. And I know it is there for you, too. It’s a gift only one word can describe.
Blessed.