As a writer, I am always drawn to questions—the kind that have no simple answers, that stretch and challenge the mind rather than resolve neatly. I struggle to reach satisfying conclusions. Writing makes me realize how many sides there are to every story, and how much there is to learn. And, I understand that my vulnerability (or could it be a strength? ) as a writer lies not in pretending to know, but admitting I don’t.
When I approach a subject, I don’t come as an expert, perched high on a platform of certainty. Instead, I show up not knowing what’s next, throwing a little light, and ask, “What if we explore this together?” Writing like this—hesitant and full of maybes—isn’t always comfortable. Vulnerability never is. But this could create something really special: a journey between writer and reader, where it’s okay to not know everything.
Too often, we encounter writing that feels like it’s talking at us. It’s confident, to the point, and complete. There’s a place for that kind of authority, of course. Yet, what resonates most deeply for me, is writing that shares its process of uncovering truths. I’m not pressured to agree or change my beliefs. It extends an invitation: Come with me. Let’s wonder about this together.
It’s about being open to the unexpected, even if you’re wrong or have to change course. When I write, I try to embrace that openness completely. It comes out in the questions, my uncertainty, and times I backtrack. Vulnerability, in this sense, is not weakness but courage: the courage to admit that I am still learning, still unfinished, still finding my way. I hope my writing helps readers feel okay about themselves, about being a work in progress too.
This approach to writing helps me forge a connection. When we let go of the need to present ourselves as authorities, we make room for something deeper and more genuine to emerge. We build a place where our readers can relate to the work, not just read it, but really be a part of it. When I say to a reader, I don’t have all the answers, but here is what I’m thinking, I’m inviting them to lean in, to respond, to grapple alongside me. Vulnerability, then, is not just an act of self-exposure; it is an act of trust.
And trust, in writing as in life, is a powerful thing. It allows us to bridge the distances between us, to see each other more clearly. Certainty can be a lonely, isolating feeling. Writing that is vulnerable—writing that is curious, questioning, incomplete—offers an antidote to that loneliness. It says, We are in this together. Let’s make sense of it as best we can.
There is no guarantee, of course, that this kind of writing will resonate or be accepted. Vulnerability always carries the risk of rejection. But I’ve decided it’s worth the risk. That’s when writing really matters; when someone reads my words and feels understood and less lonely. And isn’t that what we’re all here for? The goal isn’t to pressure others, but to foster a strong sense of community to explore the big questions we all share.
So I will keep wrestling with questions. I’m going to keep digging into all the complexities and messy truths of life. And I will keep showing up as I am: curious, unfinished, and ready to learn. Because in the end, that is the most honest way I know to write. And maybe—just maybe—it is enough.
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