Dear Mom,

When I first started writing these letters to you, I opened myself up to criticism that made me deeply uncomfortable. Similar to the themes of last week, getting criticism, especially criticism about my writing and ultimately my feelings, further fed my self-doubt. My belief that I wasn’t good enough. Speaking about these emotions openly and honestly was frightening for me. And due to my sobriety, the wounds seemed to take longer to heal. 

Before I pressed the publish button on my website last week, I told Jeremy I was nervous. He asked me why. I thought for a moment and came up with the idea that the particular things I was saying in the letter were more personal than the ones before. It was less universal of a subject. And that kind of scared me. Why would people care to read a letter that was all about my singular experience?

And then, I got responses. Really positive ones. Lots of private messages about how relatable it was. That it spoke to the way many people feel. And it helped. Immensely. To know that I am not alone in these struggles. That so many of us deal with doubt and low self-esteem and question all of our steps. All of our choices.

And it led me to think more about vulnerability. And how to start seeing it as a strength. Not as a weakness.

Today I listened to a new episode of my absolute favorite podcast. It’s called Song Exploder and each episode a musician breaks down one of their songs. You would so love this podcast and I often think about you when I listen.

In this week’s episode it was Billie Joe Armstrong from Green Day breaking down his song Basket Case. There is a moment in the interview when he says he didn’t know he was writing a sort of anthem until the response of his fans. That it’s gratifying to write something personal that you feel vulnerable about and find that people can connect to it. That sharing a private moment can lead to finding other people who have the same feelings and emotions and that in turn we can celebrate our dysfunctions together. 

Hearing this today was exactly what I needed. It validated my journey. And came from a place that matters deeply to me, as it mattered so deeply to you. The world of music.

I think in another life, I would be a music journalist. Music is my muse. It’s my therapy. It’s my biggest way to connect to the world and to my creativity. It’s a way to help me feel safe.

I listen to specific playlists while I write to you. I listen to very different ones while I write my fiction novels. I explore different genres and sounds depending on how I feel. And music has always gotten me through my darkest times. 

There are songs that I must hear when I’m going through something challenging. Some songs I listen to when I specifically need to cry and feel. Some songs come on the radio, and I’m instantly transported to a time in my life when those particular lyrics guided me. And I’m learning more and more through the world of music and more broadly the world of art that we are indeed strong when we are vulnerable. When we take chances. When we fall and fail and have to scrape ourselves off the pavement and start again. Playing safe and avoiding mistakes doesn’t get us far in life. Maybe it does on the surface. But we can’t truly live on the surface. We need to dig deeper. We need to connect.

And I believe that the ability to be exposed can be our greatest strength. If we know how to use it properly. This is where I’m currently stuck. How do I use it to my advantage? How do I turn my vulnerability into a strength?

The dictionary definition of vulnerable is ‘susceptible to physical or emotional attack or harm’. Every definition I find for vulnerability is negative. And to be totally honest, most of my experiences with being vulnerable are negative.

You, as my mom, encouraged vulnerability in our relationship. You wanted me to be open and honest and emotionally available. You tried to talk to me about big ideas and big feelings. You often spoke to me about serious topics in ways that might have been beyond my full comprehension. We’ll talk more about that next week when I dig deeper into our sex talk. 

But ultimately, I felt at a young age that presenting myself in an honest way to the world was a positive thing. You were an honest person. It could be argued by some that you were at times too honest. In a sense, you normalized talking about everything openly. Sharing was encouraged. Sharing emotions. Sharing desires. And I’m not sure if it came directly from you or from the larger culture, but I distinctly remember getting the idea that sharing my body was a positive thing. Emotional maturity. Honesty in intimacy. All of it was seen as a positive and all of it circled the idea that being vulnerable wasn’t so bad. As long as I was being ‘safe’ in the process.

And that is an idea that is having a comeback for sure. There are self-help books and podcasts, and TED Talks out there that speak about vulnerability as a strength. That vulnerability will improve relationships. It will improve mental health. That ultimately the risk is worth the reward because at the end of the day that’s how we connect.

But I have heavy baggage with vulnerability. There were so many years when I put myself into situations that left me exposed and almost guaranteed my being taken advantage of. I used to tell myself everything that happened in my life was my fault because I walked into it with my eyes open. I saw it coming and didn’t stop it. I was simply being vulnerable. I was experimenting. I was searching for real life experiences. I was in control.

But how much control does a drunk teenaged girl really have in the world? I had a target on my back, and I convinced myself that I could say no whenever I wanted to. I simply chose to say yes. Even if I wasn’t sure. Even if I wasn’t sober enough to really know what I was saying yes to. Even if I was blacked out at the time. Even if I would wake up to not remember but to know, based on evidence around me. But I said yes at one point. I made my choice. So, therefore, it must have been within my control. Again, I was just being open and free and vulnerable. I was giving myself to another. I was allowing myself to be a woman with a say. I was unafraid.

And I now wonder, is all vulnerability consensual? And at what age can a person be emotionally mature enough to understand the implications of vulnerability in a relationship? How does a young person, I’m talking teenagers and young adults, know that their vulnerability is a strength and not actively putting them in danger? I always thought being emotionally mature and intimate and vulnerable in every relationship was something to aspire to. A high achievement. Very adult of me. 

Do two people have to agree to being vulnerable together? If one is being vulnerable and the other isn’t, then isn’t that just being taken advantage of? If I walk into a situation open and willing to do anything, and I make that known, am I then just consenting to being a fool?

So, after a lifetime of seeing vulnerability as its dark dictionary definition, how do I unsee that and start a new relationship with the concept? I want to be vulnerable and honest in my writing. I also want to be vulnerable and honest in my relationships. My marriage. My friendships. My parenting. I want to see this as a strength. But I am afraid. I am afraid of criticism. I am afraid of rejection. I am afraid of getting taken advantage of. I am afraid of getting hurt. Because these are my past experiences. This is what I know.

How do I get to a place where I feel safety in my vulnerability?

I wonder if you felt this way. I know you came from a family that didn’t talk about emotions. Didn’t talk about feelings. So many people come from those types of families. Whole generations of people. Was it a rude awakening when you decided to do things differently? I can’t imagine you were always met with a positive response to your own attempts at being vulnerable. I know for a fact you got a lot of pushback for speaking your mind. For sharing your thoughts.

I have to ask, is it only a payoff when it’s successful? Like, is being honest only worth the risk when other people react in a positive way? If I write about my sexual experiences and have people only reach out in disgust, then is it worth it to me? Or is the risk itself the reward? No matter the reaction.

I think back to the point I made about Green Day. I’m pretty sure that with every artwork that’s vulnerable there are people out there who don’t relate to it. Who don’t understand the deeper meaning. Who think it’s oversharing or being crass or talking about a subject matter that should be kept private. How many artists get hate mail for simply being vulnerable? And is it still worth it at the end of the day?

I want to say yes. 

I want to exist in a place where I take chances for the sake of trying new things. Unafraid of the possibility of failure.

However, what scares me the most about accepting this idea, is that I spent years of my life taking chances. But I was doing it wrong. Getting drunk, doing drugs, sleeping around. I don’t think that’s what you meant when you told me to be open and vulnerable. My ‘saying yes to everything’ was a bit premature. I think that’s a term best saved for someone later in life. A fourteen-year-old very much should be learning to say no. 

To be totally honest, I think I’m starting to realize that the section of my inner self where vulnerability exists, is damaged. And it’s hard to envision a way to repair it. How do I bandage up my wounds and strengthen my self-esteem enough where I can be vulnerable again without further damage? Or is that the very risk I should be willing to take? Are we all supposed to function on a tipping point? Are we all striving to be cliff jumpers? To just run and jump and risk everything? I guess what I really want to know is, how long can someone sustain vulnerability as a strength? What’s its shelf life? I imagine at some point it tips back to harm. And if we, as damaged humans, don’t understand the ruler, how do we measure it? How do we know when we’ve gone too far? When we’ve been too vulnerable? 

Part of me understands that there are no real answers to my questions. It’s like asking what the meaning of life is. But then there is another part of me. It’s tiny but growing. This part of me believes that everything goes back to trial and error. Life is all about taking chances and not being afraid to fail. And now that I’m older I do understand the parameters a bit more. I do understand when taking a chance turns into being foolish. Kind of.

Of course, the biggest task I have is to teach this to my kids. Somehow. As I juggle the duality myself. As I try to figure out how to exist and I also have to teach them how to truly live. How to jump and fall and take all the risks. To not be afraid of failure. To not be afraid of sharing. To not be afraid of getting your heart stomped on. And I guess I’m starting to understand a bit more about why you chose to guide me the way you did. I think you fell short at times. But I understand your intentions. You wanted me to learn to love. To open my heart. To risk heartbreak. That it was all worth it because in the end I’d be fully alive. I see that. I do. And I am lucky because I can see the positive side of parenting that way and I can also make sure to correct the missteps you took with me. I can do it a little differently without losing the overall message. 

And again, it really is all about taking chances. Trying things out. Seeing what will work and what will stick. All of these moments. Parenting. Writing. My own relationships. Life is full of mini trials and errors. Opening yourself to the possibility of harm. Being alive is, in a sense, being vulnerable. And I am ready to fully live. Still a bit afraid. But ready.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel

P.S. I will be talking more next week about sex. Just a friendly warning.