Vulnerability

Vulnerability is supposed to be the new strength.

Men are told to open up more. Talk about your feelings. Show your softer side. Cry in front of your mates if you need to.

Does this sh*t actually work, or are we setting ourselves up for a disaster, like a turtle without a shell?

I tried it. Properly. Here’s what it got me, and what it cost.

A few years back I was living at a health and wellness retreat in Thailand.

One of my good friends there worked in life coaching, and he spent weeks convincing me to take Brené Brown’s advice and open up. Become more vulnerable, he said. Tell people what’s actually going on.

I thought it was nonsense. But I watched her talk, the one everyone’s seen, and decided to give it a go.

So I started telling people things. Personal stuff. Fears, insecurities, the bits of my past I normally kept behind a joke.

It felt weird. But weird in a good way, and after a while I could feel some of the benefits.

Before I bullsh*t you and tell you how liberating it all was, I have to admit something. There were times I felt exposed. More open to manipulation, and in some ways less attractive.

Then it dawned on me. When I wasn’t being myself, I was attracting the wrong people anyway.

Connection, mainly. Real connection.

When you stop performing, people stop performing back. I’d tell someone I was struggling and they’d tell me they were too. Ten minutes of that beats a year of talking about football.

It also sorted out who was worth my time. The people who leaned in when I opened up are still my friends. The people who went quiet, or used it as material, aren’t.

And it takes guts. Saying “I don’t know what I’m doing” out loud is harder than throwing a punch, and every time you do it the next one gets easier.

The last one surprised me. I got more honest with myself. You can’t tell someone else what you’re scared of without first admitting it in your own head, and most of us never get that far.

Now the bit the TED talk skips.

Being vulnerable means putting your feelings on the table. Not everyone handles that well. Some people will use it against you, and a few will be waiting for exactly that.

Tell a girl on the second date about your insecurity and it can turn up in an argument three months later, aimed.

Some people simply back off. You open up, they weren’t ready for it, and they distance themselves. That’s rejection, and it stings more than normal because it was the real you they walked away from.

And plenty of people, men especially, still read it as weakness. Be honest about your fears in the wrong pub and you’ll see it on their faces.

It’s draining too. If you’re pouring yourself out to everyone, all the time, you’ll burn through whatever energy you had for yourself.

At work it needs care. Admitting you don’t know something is good. Telling the office about your breakup is not.

Here’s where I landed.

Vulnerability isn’t a switch you flick. It’s a seesaw.

• Armoured. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. You’re safe and you’re alone.

• Exposed. Everything gets out, to everyone. You’re open, and you’re the turtle without the shell.

Most men start at the armoured end. The advice we get now says run to the other end as fast as you can. That’s where I went in Thailand, and that’s where the manipulation and the awkward silences live.

The point is the pivot. Open enough that the right people can get in, armoured enough that the wrong ones can’t.

Brown says the same thing, if you read past the talk. In Daring Greatly she’s clear that vulnerability isn’t oversharing. It’s sharing with people who’ve earned the right to hear it.

Most men who try this skip that line.

Dating. Stop pretending to be invulnerable. Share something true about your past or where you’re going, and she’ll know you’re real. I wrote about this in Authenticity. It’s not a sob story on the first drink, though. That’s not vulnerable, that’s needy.

Relationships. Tell her what you need and what you’re scared of. Nothing builds trust faster, and nothing kills it faster than a man who says “I’m fine” for five years.

Mates. If you’re not alright, say so. The ones worth keeping will be glad you did, and when they’re not alright they’ll come to you.

Work. Say your idea. Admit when you don’t know something. That’s the honest end of this. The rest of your private life can stay private.

And in any room, read it first. Some people will try to exploit you. You don’t owe them the shell.

Is it a good thing?

Mostly, yes.

It cost me some pride, a couple of people who were never really friends, and a few evenings of feeling like I’d said too much.

It got me the friends I’ve got now. The ones who know what’s under the shell and stuck around anyway.

Open up. Just pick who to.