“Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk can help us know that we are not alone.” ― Fred Rogers

After the accident, Chris and I found ourselves in a very vulnerable place. The trauma weakened us. We did not have the strength we normally had. We needed the kindness of others, because we did not have the same ability to protect ourselves. People often talk about the power of vulnerability, as though we are strong in such places. We are told that coming from a place of vulnerability is a good thing. Being open is considered the positive ideal. Vulnerability though, is just that, vulnerability. When one is truly vulnerable, they are coming from a place of fragility. And sure, I suppose there is certain beauty in fragility, but still, all the same, fragile things are more easily broken. When Chris and I were at our most vulnerable, our most fragile, it was then we had to fight the hardest to protect ourselves. To survive. Because, appearing vulnerable. Being fragile, makes others uncomfortable. Angry. Aggressive. It often brings out the worst in people. Like a chicken in a hen house that appears weaker than the rest. Its feathers are picked out one by one.

I have come to believe there is a certain danger in saying we celebrate vulnerability. Because, in truth, one is only really celebrated after they are not vulnerable anymore. After they have passed the test, and survived. Before that, the vulnerable are not celebrated. No one aspires to be vulnerable. That is simply not reality. No one wishes to be the child in foster care with no one to turn to. Or the single mother who can barely pay her bills. No one wants to be the addict. Or the one struggling with “mental illness.” No one wants to be the victim of sexual assault. No one wants to be the mother of young children, suffering from panic attacks. No one wants to be the parents on the life boat, holding their baby between them, as they flee poverty and/or war. No one wants to live with PTSD. You will never convince me anyone would choose to be vulnerable, in the true sense of the word. This is why when we are not vulnerable we turn away from it. Why we pretend we don’t feel their shaky hands grasping our sleeves. Why we often cannot look the suffering in their eyes. Why we blame the vulnerable for being vulnerable at all. It frightens us. Subconsciously, we see ourselves in their journey.

In truth, we do not celebrate the one who is surviving. The one who is in the dirt. Reaching up. Struggling. If we are honest, we know this. We do not celebrate those who are surviving. We celebrate the survivor. Sure, I get this. This seems inspirational. To honour those who overcome the odds. The resilient. The lucky. Its how we want all of our stories to end. Happily ever after. It makes us feel safer. However, having felt truly vulnerable. Understanding why drastic choices are made. Why people give up. Because broken feels broken. Weak feels weak. Ugly feels ugly. Less than feels less than. Frightened feels frightened. Alone feels alone. Having been vulnerable, I see the truth. It is a place we never want to be.

We need to start to honouring those in the thick of it. The ones doing battle. The ones fighting to survive. Instead of seeing their weaknesses, we focus on their strengths. Surviving after trauma is unbelievably difficult. When making it through each day feels next to impossible. Not knowing how much longer it will go on. Before the tides turn. The cuts become scars. The blood stops flowing. Or if it will ever stop at all, because when someone is struggling to survive, there are two possible outcomes. When one is struggling to survive, there is always a chance that they won’t. Survive. Those in the midst of surviving they know this. Every second of every day, they know this. There is a tremendous amount of fear in that knowledge. An adding to the weight. An additional burden. Recognition and acknowledgment of trauma helps to take some of that burden away.

In my life I know there are people I could be there for more, and having been through what we have been through, I know better. Supporting is not usually an easy thing to do, though. But, if we, as a society could acknowledge even that. If we could acknowledge the simple fact that we don’ t always know what is the right thing to do to make it better. That most of us have not been taught how to reach out without feeling overwhelmed. That looking vulnerability in the face is scary, so it is easier to pretend we don’t see it. Facing our own fears is hard. We are all afraid of loss. Of our own weaknesses. Of our own fragility. Some of us are also struggling to make it through each day. Some of us are also surviving.

But, if we could take out the judgment that often seems to go hand in hand with trauma. With being vulnerable. If we could resist the urge to shame those who are struggling. To take out the need to blame. To see someone suffering and not make them feel less than. To not condemn. Instead, to show compassion. To listen for not so subtle cries for help. To watch for signs of hidden suffering.  To respond with kindness. To not avoid eye contact. To not throw out an easy, “it will get better,” or “you are strong,” but instead to sit with it. To sit with it. To sit with them. To not necessarily try to fix it, but to honour. To show compassion. To acknowledge. Because pain is pain. All pain is valid. And for some of us, that is all we need to hear.

I honour your story. I honour your suffering. I acknowledge your struggle. I will meet you where you need me to meet you. I will sit with you as you sit with your pain. While it might not be my place to take it from you. To carry it for you. I do honour it. I do honour your pain. I do honour your journey. I might not understand, but still, I honour your surviving. I honour you. Tell me your story. Tell me your fears. I will not abandon you. I will not shame you. I will listen, and when the time comes, I will tell you mine.