Why I Hated the Word Vulnerability

Until it nearly killed me.

A few years ago, I discovered the books of Brené Brown, and her discussion of vulnerability horrified me. The very synonyms made me shudder; exposed, susceptible, unprotected, defenseless, weak, helpless, fragile, insecure, at risk, in danger.

I’d spent my life being brave, exhibiting courage, never backing down.

To me, strength meant safety. Childhood had taught me well—needing others meant disappointment. Trust equals danger.

Now, this author, this supposed expert, was extolling intentional vulnerability? Not for this woman.

Vulnerable. from Latin vulerabilis, wounding

I headed for town on a crisp Sunday afternoon. The highway was clear as I pulled out. Suddenly, a car swerved into my lane, and an immense force threw me against the seatbelt as the airbag exploded in my face. A cacophony of sounds enveloped me as my breath was sucked from my body. The car alarm blared, steam from the crushed radiator vaporized into the cold air, shrouding the scene.

It hurt to breathe. I couldn’t move.

The engine block had been forced into the cab, pinning my foot to the floor. Concerned drivers stopped, a crowd surrounded my pickup. Yet, as a former EMT, I calmly directed my own rescue as though I were a bystander.

Several men were prying open the hood, trying to end the relentless, screaming alarm. Then, finally, someone managed to jerk it into silence.

“Now, don’t you worry, young lady. We’re gonna get you outa there.”

“No, don’t move me. I could have a neck or back injury. Wait for the EMS,” I responded.

“It looks like they’re gonna have to cut her foot off!”

Two men were discussing my predicament as if I wasn’t there.

“What? I can get my foot out!” I jerked; my foot was free; it was only my shoe that was pinned against the floor.

People everywhere. Jaws of life pneumatically screeching, prying, forcing the crushed metal away from what had been the door of my well-loved Toyota pickup.

Clack, clack, clack, as a helicopter landed. I argued with the paramedic from the air ambulance.

“I can’t be airlifted. I don’t think my insurance pays for it.”

“No, let me tell you. My helicopter is nice and smooth and fast. An ambulance will be bumpy and slow, and you’re gonna be hurtin’ real bad in a minute here,” he tried to convince me as if talking to a child.

“Do you have kids? They’re gonna be awful mad if you die, and I tell ’em you wouldn’t go in my helicopter.”

Of course, the mom guilt tactic succeeded, and I relented. I had always wanted to take a scenic helicopter tour of Austin but not from a gurney strapped to the inside of an air ambulance. A dose of morphine and memory faded to black.

It’s been three years since that winter afternoon. A broken femur, seven fractures of the pelvis, a lacerated spleen with extensive internal bleeding, and a total hip replacement later, I’m back to normal.

But I nearly gave up. I wanted to say, “I quit. I give up. This is just too hard.”

My identity had always been centered on physical strength and endurance. If something needed to be done — call on me, and I’d take care of it. I’d stripped my house down to the studs and rebuilt it. I’d killed and butchered livestock. Birthed five kids. Nothing before had ever changed my life so completely.

I was a farmer, and I was pretty sure that was over for me.

Now I was finally home from two weeks in the hospital and four more living with my son in Austin.

Hobbling up the steps on my optimistically neon flower-decorated cane, I felt helpless and more than a little overwhelmed. What if I wasn’t able to take care of myself? How could I cope?

Collapsing on my bed, I sobbed and howled the fear, sorrow, and anger out of my body and into my pillow.

I’d been holding it all inside, guilty and embarrassed to be sad when everyone told me I was lucky to be alive.

I’d been humbled by the realization that many people dealt with disability or illness their entire lives, and I’d been so fortunate to be healthy. Yet, my life had changed, and I better learn to deal with it.

Yes, I faced a setback, but I spent way too much time feeling sorry for myself. This was not a character trait I’d ever coddled. It was time to put my big-girl panties on and step up.

This was the beginning of a journey I’d never planned for — creating a more vulnerable and humble self.

The inner effort was harder than physical therapy ever was. Yes, my life changed that January day. I began to understand what Brené Brown meant when she said that everyone is doing the best they can, that day, with the resources they have available.

I’ve learned that physical strength is less important than inner strength and that I can trust those I love. I’ve got plenty of room to grow, but I’m more compassionate and not near as judge-y as I used to be. It took, literally, being wounded to begin to understand—the true meaning of courage is showing up.

I’d love to meet Brené someday—I’m sure many of us think of her on a first-name basis. I’d tell her how much her words have meant to me. I watch her talks, listen to her podcasts, and read her books over and over. Her words now make perfect sense to me.

Vulnerability is not winning or losing. It’s having the courage to show up when you can’t control the outcome. Vulnerability is not weakness; it’s our greatest measure of courage.
Rising Strong: How the Ability to Reset Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead — Brené Brown