Being Vulnerable Is Showing Up

I read this article in the NYTimes a few weeks ago about people who make pilgrimages to the Temple Mount in Israel. They climb the steps a few times a year and then circle around an enormous plaza.

 If you are doing okay, you turn right and circle counterclockwise. 

If you’re sick, brokenhearted, or lonely, you turn left and walk against the current.

As the two currents pass each other, the ones who entered from the right look into the eyes of the lonely, heartbroken ones and say, “I can’t take your pain away, but I promise you won’t have to hold it alone.”

Both groups must show up—the strong to reach out in strength, the vulnerable to be seen and to ask for help. 

My first thought was: No. I would only show up to reach out in strength, but I’m staying home if I’m grieving, sick, or sad. I don’t want anybody to see me when I’m sad. I’d rather hide. Or lie. 

“I’m fine.”

When I recently had the flu, I hated admitting it. 

When people said and wrote sweet things to me, like hoping I’d get better soon, I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to admit I needed help, understanding, or anything. 

But most of all, I didn’t want to be pitied. 

I have always thought if I ever contracted a serious illness, I’d never tell anyone. And that’s because I fear pity. 

As a child, I was neglected. I went to school with uncombed hair and wrinkly clothes and suffered under the silent, pitying gaze of the nuns. 

When my father died, my mother completely checked out on my sister and me. We were too much for her, she said. She couldn’t handle us. She spent her days and nights at the bar.

Now, as an adult, I understand she had a problem, but at age nine, I thought we were neglected because we were unlovable. 

I didn’t want the nuns to know I was unlovable and my mother wasn’t caring for us, so I taught myself to iron, braid hair, and cook. I figured out how to work the washers and dryers at the laundromat. I dutifully did my homework, forged my mother’s signature, and helped my younger sister with hers.   

I wanted the nuns to think everything was fine at home, that we were loved and cared for, and that my mother was stepping up. I didn’t want them to see how tired, sad, and heartbroken I was.

And I was successful. They never found out. 

But because I didn’t step forward and turn left in the circle and never admitted or showed my vulnerability, I missed the opportunity to be seen by the eyes of those who entered from the right. Those strong ones who were present and wanted to reach out and ask: “What happened to you? Why does your heart ache? You are not alone. I can’t take your pain away, but you don’t have to hold it alone.”

Risking vulnerability is one of the hardest things for me.

I think it’s one of the hardest things we have to learn to do as humans. 

I must learn that I can’t hide when I’m sick and only show up when I’m not. That’s not being authentic.  That’s not being fully present.

I need to show up with the soup when I’m strong and be brave enough to ask for it when I’m sick. 

It’s taken me a painfully long time to realize this. 

I can still feel the residue of that old shame. 

Baby steps.