The Vulnerability Trap

I was talking with someone recently about a course I'm running—The Art of Conscious Relationship with AI. They were interested but hesitant. The edge for them wasn't the technology or the time commitment. It was the idea of sharing personal feelings with an AI—and the risk that sharing those feelings opens them up to whoever might get hold of that information and what they might do with it.

They shared something with me—they'd recently looked up the dictionary definition of vulnerability: "The quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally."

They paused. "That's exactly what I'm feeling," they said. "This might be where I actually need to lean in—where true vulnerability is for me in this course."

I'd never thought about it that way. Exposed to the possibility of harm. That's the actual definition. It seems like most of what we call vulnerability in personal development culture doesn't meet that threshold.

The Performance We've Perfected

We've sanitized vulnerability. We've turned it into a skill, a practice, a virtue to perform.

We share our struggles with perfectionism—but only after we've resolved them, wrapped them in insight, delivered them with the implicit message: "but I've grown past it now." We're being personal, but we're not at risk. We're demonstrating growth.

We post about our anxiety or imposter syndrome in communities where we already know everyone will respond with "me too!" We're being honest, but within the safe bounds of collective experience. There's no real exposure because we know we're not alone.

I've done this too. I've shared struggles after I'd already resolved them. I've posted about doubts in spaces where I knew I'd get validation. I've been strategically vulnerable—honest, but controlled.

There might be vulnerability in that—but there's also something protective happening. We're inching toward exposure while keeping ourselves safe. And maybe that's exactly where most of us live: close enough to vulnerability to call it that, but not quite close enough to actually be at risk.

Real vulnerability is what happens when you expose something tender and you genuinely don't know how it will be received. When you can't take it back. When you might lose something that matters—a relationship, a reputation, an identity you've built. When your nervous system is actually uncertain about whether you're safe.

The difference lives in the risk, not necessarily the content.

The conversation has stayed with me the past couple of weeks. It made me look at where I've been holding back—places where I tell myself I'm being open, but I'm actually staying safe. So here are some things I haven't been naming publicly. I'm sharing them because staying silent feels more protective than it does honest.

Where I'm Actually At Risk

Faith

I sit in church on Sundays and listen to interpretations of scriptures I still love—but the traditional readings don't resonate with me the way they used to. The simplified narratives, the certainty that we have the one truth and nobody else does—I can't inhabit that perspective anymore.

I see layers beneath the surface now. Mystical depths, contemplative wisdom hiding in plain sight. And when I name what I'm seeing, I can feel the discomfort in the room. Not hostility—just... unease. Like I've said something slightly out of bounds.

The truth? I haven't lost my faith. I've outgrown the container it used to live in.

I'm committed to staying in my faith community. Not one foot out the door, not begrudgingly showing up—genuinely committed. And it's lonely in a way I didn't expect. So I've learned to navigate the in-between. How much to say, how much to hold back. When to speak, when to stay silent. Surrounded by my community, but profoundly alone in what I'm seeing.

What if someone from my congregation reads this? What if they see me differently now? What if naming this costs me the belonging I still value?

That's feels risky to me.

Marriage

When identity shifts at a fundamental level, it sends shockwaves through every relationship you're in—especially the ones that formed around earlier versions of who you both were.

My marriage is navigating that now. We're both changing—growing in ways we didn't anticipate when we first built this relationship. The relational patterns we established years ago, the ways we used to connect and communicate, don't work the same way anymore. They're breaking down, and we're having to build new ones.

I've stopped pursuing connection in the old ways, learning to be grounded without chasing. We're both working to find the equilibrium. As relationships change, there can be volatility—disorienting territory that neither of us has really mapped before.

I love my wife. I'm committed to my kids.

This is vulnerable to share. But it's real.

Work

I'm building a business teaching people to navigate liminal transitions—identity shifts, spiritual awakenings, leadership transformations. And I'm in the middle of my own.

I have 5 spots filled in my first group cohort with my business partner, and we need 15 more. There's real uncertainty about whether what we're building will work, whether the market wants what we're offering.

But the deeper vulnerability is in my 1-on-1 work. I'm positioning myself to work with high-capacity leaders—and some part of me is holding back. Am I really ready to work with high-capacity leaders? What if I put myself fully out there and no one responds? What if they see through me? What if my experience and track record of success doesn't transfer to this type of work?

I don't know. And that not-knowing keeps me playing small—waiting for more certainty, more credibility, more proof that I'm qualified.

Here's what feels real: The people who need what I have to offer don't need me to have arrived. They need someone who's honest about being in the middle of it. Someone who's not pretending to have it all together. Someone who's willing to say "I don't know" and still show up.

What if admitting I don't have answers disqualifies me? What if people need their guides to be certain, stable, arrived?

My view is that anyone claiming to have it all figured out is either lying or hasn't gone deep enough yet.

What This Moment Asks of Us

So here's my invitation to you:

Notice when you think you're being vulnerable. Are you actually at risk? Or are you sharing something you already know will be received well?

Are you exposing something unresolved, uncertain, tender? Or are you telling a story you've already integrated, polished, made safe?

We're living in a liminal moment—collectively. The old paradigms are dissolving. The new ones haven't fully formed. And what this moment needs isn't more people with answers. It needs people willing to be honest about their uncertainty, their genuine stakes, their real liminality.

When you let yourself be truly seen—not the curated version, but the actual in-between—you create permission for others to do the same. That permission is how emergence happens. How new patterns form at the collective level.

Vulnerability is the willingness to be harmed for the sake of being truly known.

Let’s know each other.

-Matt