Vulnerability and the Risk of Being Seen

Something happened yesterday that I’m still unpacking. It wasn’t dramatic — no huge betrayal or outburst — just a string of jokes that hit a little too close to something I’ve held quietly.

There was a moment, maybe two or three, where someone joked that I was “basically one of the women anyway,” because I was the only man in the group. At first I tried to laugh it off — making light by saying something like “I’m going to reveal something soon” just to soften the edge. But by the third comment, when someone else joked about “revealing my sex to everyone,” it stopped being funny. I said, “That’s a bit too far. I feel uncomfortable.” And I meant it.

What stung the most was that it came from someone I love and trust — someone who, in a way, has felt like a mother figure to me. And maybe that’s why it landed deeper. Not because I think she meant any harm, but because I was so open. So emotionally present. And when I’m in that state, even playful teasing can graze the parts of me still trying to heal.

I don’t think it was about the specific words. It was about how vulnerable I’ve been willing to be. How much I’ve opened up. And in that space, there’s always risk — of being misunderstood, laughed at, or judged in subtle ways. It made me wonder: Does my emotional openness make me seem less masculine? Do my reflections, my honesty, make people assume things about me?

There’s a shadow that creeps in when those thoughts come. That old whisper — “Maybe you’re too soft. Maybe you’re too much.” But here’s what I came back to:

I’m not ashamed of how deeply I feel.
I’m not afraid of being called sensitive.
And I don’t need to justify my masculinity, my sexuality, or my depth to anyone.

What I’m learning is that the real strength is in staying open — even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable. There’s a quiet power in not retreating, in not armoring up. I could shut down. I could become guarded. But I won’t. That’s not the path I’m on anymore.

I also recognize that this isn’t about punishing the people I care about for a few misplaced jokes. It’s about letting myself process the emotional residue that came with them. Because even love can sometimes sting, and it’s okay to say “that hurt” without it meaning “you’re a bad person.”

There’s so much that happened in those three hours yesterday. So much content, so much subtle movement. It may take me weeks to let it all settle. And that’s okay too.

This is part of being human.
Part of being awake.
Part of being seen.

And I’d rather be seen — even imperfectly — than keep hiding the parts of me that want to live out loud.