Was I just a game to the men who claimed to care? Bent like a worn-out Jack of spades, traded unfairly and left in the muck. The bands that tighten across my chest say yes—that I was the joker in their ruse. My fears mock and taunt, dragging me down in all things ugly. Because that’s what I am, right? Ugly.
The notches of memories stand out like a stack of cards, and when flicked have disastrous impacts. Isaac, who at 21 told me I was worthless and would never find anyone better than him. The college football boy that I’d watched Goonies with who forcibly pushed me down before I ran from his room, and the bald-headed bar owner in Rhode Island who saw me as his to own.
I’m not okay sometimes, but society and our culture demand I am. Society pushes us to act “okay” all the time, turning vulnerability into a quiet act of rebellion. We’re expected to stay positive, productive, and resilient, which makes admitting that we’re struggling feel like a failure. But real growth comes from facing, not hiding, those moments when we’re not okay.
My not-okay days leave me conflicted as a writer. I prioritize being vulnerable and authentic above all else, but I’m equally aware that readers will react. Is it my job to manage others’ reactions? To protect, calm, and reassure them, when I barely have energy for myself? I don’t know. But every so often we do that awkward dance where we sidestep around each other, trying not to step on toes.
I desire to take care of you. And I want you to take care of me. And push and pull is hard, but sometimes I’m selfish and choose me. I’m learning there’s a double-edged sword to vulnerability; the need to be seen in our brokenness while weathering the discomfort of those around us.
My work as a counselor gives me a unique perspective on this vulnerability. Clients, with tear-filled raccoon eyes, often fear I will turn them into a psychiatric facility for having suicidal thoughts. I never have, as the first question is, “Do you feel safe with you?”
Maybe the real work here isn’t just in being vulnerable ourselves but in learning to hold space for each other’s vulnerability too. When we make room for others to not be okay—without judgment, without rushing to fix—we create a softer, more compassionate world. There’s power in allowing one another to sit with what’s messy, trusting that our presence is enough. In choosing to show up this way, we honor each other’s journeys and make it safer to be real, flaws and all.
Take care. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 