The 1980s.

Remember those days?

The sun-drenched, unsupervised expanses of a Gen X childhood.

We roamed free, fueled by garden hose water and a healthy disregard for tetanus. Skinned knees were treated with a dirt poultice and a shrug. Sunscreen was for wimps.

And feelings? Well, feelings were best kept under wraps, thank you very much. “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about” wasn’t just a threat; it was a foundational principle of emotional regulation in my household. “Children are to be seen and not heard” and “if you want to have an opinion, I’ll give one to you” cemented the deal.

We learned early that the messy, uncomfortable, truly human stuff was best kept private. And honestly, for a long time, that felt like a superpower.

Then, along came Brené Brown, a hurricane in a TED Talk, gently but firmly dismantling everything I thought I knew about strength.

Her work hit me like a splash of cold hose water – refreshing, a little shocking, and entirely necessary.

She defined vulnerability as “uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure,” and introduced us to the concept of “Daring Greatly,” borrowing from Theodore Roosevelt’s “Man in the Arena” speech. Brown wasn’t just talking about feelings; she was talking about courage, connection, and the profound beauty of showing up as our authentic, imperfect selves. “Vulnerability is not winning or losing,” she writes in Daring Greatly, “it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome.”

It was a radical concept to my Gen X brain, which had spent decades equating emotional exposure with weakness. But Brown’s research, presented with such clarity and compassion, started to chip away at those old defenses.

I started to understand that the very act of leaning into discomfort, of taking that emotional risk, was where true strength lay. It wasn’t about being fearless, but about feeling the fear and doing it anyway – stepping into that arena, even if it meant risking failure or judgment.

This week, in a move fueled by 9/11 anniversary angst, and yet another chronic illness side quest, I decided to show up for myself in ways that felt like walking a tightrope without a net.

I decided to put Brown’s wisdom into practice, daring greatly in my own small, significant ways.

First, I created a private Facebook group to talk about my ongoing health journey.

If you know me, you know I keep my health struggles close to the vest. The idea of broadcasting my vulnerabilities, even to a select group, made me kind of want to throw up a little. It felt like opening up a dusty old closet for public inspection, inviting scrutiny where I usually guard my privacy fiercely.

But the desire for connection, for a space where I could be truly honest about my gory, messy reality, outweighed the discomfort.

I understand that to truly connect, I have to allow myself to be seen.

And then, in a moment of unexpected bravery, or maybe stupidity…we’ll see, I shared my Instagram and blog addresses with a colleague. My work life and personal life are usually two entirely separate universes, with a demilitarized zone firmly established between them. This felt like blurring those lines, risking professional perception for personal authenticity. Yet, there was something in our conversation, a shared glance of understanding, that made me take the leap. It was a conscious decision to step into the arena of a more personal connection, even if it felt exposed.

Both acts, although in the great grand scheme of things, are actually pretty darn small.

That didn’t stop them from feeling monumental though.

They were moments of intentional emotional exposure, risks taken with an uncertain outcome, directly inspired by the courage Brown champions.

And you know what?

It wasn’t nearly as terrifying as my inner Gen X kid predicted.

In fact, there was a profound sense of relief, of lightness. I’m learning to recognize those subtle cues, those moments when the potential for genuine connection outweighs the fear of being seen.

It’s not about throwing open the floodgates to everyone, all the time.

It’s about discerning, being brave, and understanding that sometimes, the greatest strength lies in the willingness to let another person truly see you, scraped knees and all. It’s a journey, this vulnerability thing, but one that’s proving to be remarkably rich and deeply human.