You know I’m obsessed with trauma—understanding it, digging into it, identifying what it is and isn’t. Earlier in a session, I stumbled upon a subtle distinction, like noticing the difference between hazel and brown eyes. It’s nuanced but meaningful, and here goes…
Wound and vulnerability are entirely different animals. Maybe they’re part of the same family of human experience, but they each have distinct traits. One might have a long snout, while the other’s is shorter. Or, if you prefer a cooking analogy, it’s like the difference between a roux and a béchamel. (In a béchamel, you add milk to the fat-and-flour base of a roux.)
Vulnerability is not the wound, and the wound is not vulnerability. Recognizing this distinction allows us to work on the wound—to understand, process, and heal it—while also honoring our fundamental need to draw close in relationships and feel secure in our vulnerability.
What’s your experience with vulnerability and wounds? Have you ever found it hard to separate the two?
When I’m in my wound, everything feels unsafe. I see people as threats, and my instinct is to protect myself. Rejection and judgment loom large. This wound comes from past hurts—times when people have taken advantage of me or let me down. It’s painful, yes, but it’s also part of me. And I’m learning to care for it, nurture myself, and surround myself with people who won’t deepen the injury.
Vulnerability, though, is something different. It’s me being honest and real. It’s showing up with my wound—not hiding it, but not letting it control me. Picture it like a belt threaded through my belt loops—part of me, but not my whole identity.
Living vulnerably means saying, “Here’s my experience, here’s my story,” without needing your approval to feel whole. My worth doesn’t depend on how others perceive me. Instead, it comes from within—a steady, unwavering belief that I’m enough.
When I’m vulnerable, I stay present with myself and with others. I can share authentically, mindful of my wounds, but not ruled by them. It’s a way of connecting deeply without losing sight of my own strength and security.
Speaking of mindfulness, I revisited the week one material of the mindfulness course I mentioned yesterday. I noticed some resistance when I saw the sheer amount of videos, books, and article suggestions, but one simple prompt stood out: Create a reason—a why—for wanting to meditate.
I know there are benefits to meditation, like taking time to be still simply for the sake of stillness. But I also know how important it is to have a personal connection to something. So, in reflecting on my reason, I’m not a fan of feeling insecure. I don’t like being in conversations with people I love or care about, only to feel anxious or overwhelmed when the focus shifts to me. My thoughts speed up, and my chest feels like an ocean of crashing waves.
I want to improve that for myself. So I’m committing to mindful meditation to bring understanding and peace to that part of my experience.
What about you? Is there an area in your life where you’d like to cultivate more calm and clarity?
I have 34 minutes until my next session and plan to spend ten of them in quiet, observing my body and feeling the raciness I just described.
I’ll tell you how it goes tomorrow.
Love,
Jaclynn