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“Vulnerability is the only way through the wall that divides us.” ~Brené Brown
Every time I share something deeply personal—an article, a post, a piece of my story somewhere or another—there is a part of me that shines brightly. I feel a sense of urgency, a desire to participate now. The belief that other people will need to feel, relate to, and feel less alone. And often, it helps me make sense of my experiences, too. Even if I don’t always pay attention to it, there is a higher reason that guides me.
Storytelling is healing—for the writer, the storyteller, and the reader. The raw, true human experience is powerful.
However… after pressing “publish” or opening my heart to a friend or loved one, something familiar comes after sharing.
The wave. Strength. Tightness in my chest. A sinking feeling in my stomach. Second guessing.
Did I talk too much? Did I overshare? Was that brave—or reckless? Will I still be loved and accepted now that I have been seen like this?
I remember the first time I shared something deeply green in a public post. I wrote for a while at a yoga retreat where our group was walking through the Australian rainforest and came to a small river that was sparkling as if it had been waiting for us. The water was clear, clean, and absolutely inviting. Neither of us had brought swimsuits—swimming wasn’t part of the plan.
That didn’t stop other women. Feeling free, united, and deeply connected, they undressed and swam naked in the river. I stood there in silence in awe of their bravery and courage.
I hesitated, caught between wanting to join and the voice of my condition: my body was not perfect, not thin enough, especially after becoming a mother, and I had not shaved for a long time…
I finally let go and took the part off. I entered the stream, and let the water flow. In that moment, I felt the release I didn’t know I needed. My skin feels the cool, refreshing effect of the new spring on my body. My body—with its new curves, softness, and life—was a wonder, a vessel for experience, not a source of shame. I felt alive.
I hit “publish” on the story with excitement. Soon after publication, a wave came: a ball in my stomach, a knot in my solar plexus. Shame on you. Shame on you. Did I reveal too much? Was I a women’s coach talking about naked bodies and fighting my own insecurities? What would my clients think?
However, the response was positive. The women answered, saying that the story is popular. Some remember that magical day. Others recognize their struggles with body image. Others feel inspired. That first act of vulnerability—raw, imperfect, human—planted seeds beyond what I knew.
This experience taught me something important: the strength we feel after sharing doesn’t mean we did something wrong. It means that we have touched something that is true.
Now, I share more about myself: the failures I see, the hopes, the insecurities, and the wisdom I have gained from the experience. I continue to push the limits of my comfort zone, recently sharing personal stories such as my diagnosis of ADHD and, more recently, my strong views on patriarchy and current social issues.
Every time I step into a space outside my comfort zone, I feel it again: the response of the nervous system, raw and real. But each time, the intensity becomes a little gentler, and I meet it with more patience, compassion, and understanding.
Vulnerable sharing is still an act of truth, trust, and communication.
The Vulnerability Hangover Nobody Talks About
What I have learned is that these emotional effects are very common. Some people call it a dangerous hangover—the low mood that follows the opening.
When we share something real, we come out from behind our protection. We allow ourselves to be seen. And as time passes, the nervous system asks the age-old question:
“Am I safe now?”
This question can indicate sadness, anxiety, shame, regret, fear of rejection, or a desire to retreat and hide. It doesn’t mean the sharing was wrong. It means that we are human—and we are wired to belong.
Oversharing vs. Conscious Sharing
For a long time, I thought this wave meant I would overshare. Now I see it differently.
Oversharing isn’t about how much you reveal. It’s about how and why you express it. Oversharing usually occurs when:
- We share to manage our emotions instead of holding them back.
- The wound still bleeds, it doesn’t scar much.
- We seek validation, validation, or comfort from others.
- We share without considering the container or relationship.
- We feel powerless, ashamed, or divided afterwards.
Oversharing isn’t a failure—it’s a sign that some part of us needs more support before it shows up.
Conscious sharing, on the other hand:
- It comes from connecting with the need for emotional control.
- It happens by intention and choice.
- It respects time, boundaries, and context.
- It leaves us tender but still whole.
- It feels aligned, even if it’s uncomfortable.
Both can feel emotions. There is only one who respects us.
Questions That Changed How I Share
Before engaging now—whether in writing or in conversation—I pause and ask myself those simple questions:
“Am I fully participating, or am I asking to be held?”
No judgment in the answer. Both are deeply human.
If I ask to be held, I know that sharing might be better suited to a private, resourceful place—therapy, close friendships, writing letters, or living with me.
If I were to share perfection—even completeness—I would trust you more.
“Who needs to hear this, and what needs to be said?”
This question invites me to get out of doing it me and in the service of the message—the deeper purpose and function of the story.
If the honest answer is that I’m talking to one person I’m angry with, I know that a private conversation will be more meaningful.
But if the answer is that this is for women who live with confidence or navigate similar experiences in peace and loneliness, I trust the story. I hope it holds wisdom, that it can be healing, and that it is meant to be shared.
When the Aftermath Comes
Even conscious, direct vulnerability can leave you feeling raw afterward. Feeling exposed doesn’t mean you overshare. It usually means that you have touched something real.
For sensitive, empathetic people—those who feel deeply and care deeply—being vulnerable activates the nervous system. And the nervous system doesn’t speak logically—it speaks logically.
This is why how we take care of ourselves after sharing things is like sharing itself.
How I Raise Myself After Being Vulnerable
I have learned not to rush through the outcome—to meet it gently. The inner river of love.
Here’s what helps me after sharing something vulnerable:
1. Mark the end
I just shut down that time—close my laptop, put my phone down, wash my hands.
I say silence“What needed to be shared.”
2. Return to my body
A hand on my heart. Taking a deep breath. Letting out a long breath. Gentle stretching.
No analysis—just presence. I imagine the intensity of the feeling I feel wrapped around the inner river of love as I breathe in and out.
3. Witness my courage
Instead of replaying the story, I agree to this action:
“That was brave.”
“I didn’t give up.”
“I chose to be independent.”
4. Rediscover my boundaries
I imagine my strength returning to me and I repeat the following:
“What is mine I keep, what is not mine I release.
5. Ground in the common
Warm tea. It’s a shower. Walking. Something simple and human. Life goes on. I am safe.
The Deepest Truth I have come to trust
For a long time, especially women, we were taught to call telling the truth “oversharing.” Not because it was wrong but because it made others uncomfortable.
The goal is not to be less honest.
We don’t need to soften our stories, hide our feelings, or edit our truth to make others comfortable. Honesty isn’t a problem—it’s a path to connection, healing, and self-understanding.
The goal is to be more honest with ourselves.
Honesty means sharing order, taking care of our boundaries, and taking care of ourselves afterward.
It means knowing the difference between an open wound that needs additional internal support before it can be dissected and a scar that can be safely held in the hands of others.
When we are honest with ourselves, vulnerability becomes a gift—both to us and to those who accept our story—because we remain as we are, grounded, and whole, as we are deeply visible.
Some stories heal us secretly.
Others live together.
Some are seeds planted silently, without us seeing how they grow.
And sometimes, the tension after sharing is just the nervous system learning that it’s visible—and safe.
It’s the mantra I keep coming back to
When doubt creeps in, I repeat:
“I am fully engaged, not hungry.”
“I trust the part of me that chose to speak.”
And let me say that is enough.
