The Flip Side of Vulnerability
Several weeks ago, I made a video about a word I mis-use: penultimate. Who else thought penultimate meant “the ultimate ultimate” and not second-to-last? In the TikTok comments, someone told me to explore the word vulnerable. And so I did. And the results stunned me.
The etymology of vulnerable is vulnerare (Latin): to wound, hurt, injure, maim. It wasn’t until the 16th-century that the definition of vulnerable flipped, and it came to represent the opposite, a susceptibility to being wounded, hurt, injured. Though, it wasn’t popular: Its usage has hockey-sticked in recent years as the word has become a significant touchstone in our collective vocabulary. We’re all instructed to be vulnerable, rather than armored—to show our soft bellies to the world. On the whole, I think this is good advice, but there’s something about this flipped etymology that made me realize that vulnerability cannot be one-sided. When it’s one-sided, it’s more akin to either martyrdom or an attack, rather than…a duel.
Brené Brown, who is largely responsible for the mainstreaming of vulnerability, often refers to Teddy Roosevelt’s famous “The Man in the Arena” speech, which goes like this:
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
It’s not the critic that counts. This is hard advice to take, especially when so many of us now put ourselves out there on the daily for others to adjudicate our worth.
A few weeks ago, an anonymous user posted a podcast review cushioned with that death blow, “I love Elise BUT…” This listener, who had apparently read all of my other reviews until they found one in May that aligned with their opinion, described my interview style as “cringe-worthy,” “borderline embarrassing,” and “disrespectful.” They believe I talk too much. On my own conversational interview show. “I love Elise but I hope she is reading her reviews and can start correcting this.”
Well, anonymous listener, yes, I do read reviews. And I wish I could say that the positive ones land with as much force as those that are less so.
I brought this review up to my therapist and he looked at me with alarm: “You can’t spend your energy on this. You can’t afford to. We need to work on some ways for you to be self-protective…specifically, I don’t think you should read reviews.”
I countered that I felt like I should turn and face feedback: Because isn’t that what vulnerability is about?
“No,” he replied, “anonymous feedback does not get your energy. And it does not deserve your vulnerability because it is not vulnerable.” He explained that vulnerability requires mutual risk: Offering feedback, even criticism, can be vulnerable, but only if it’s owned.
“Is that why it feels so different when someone emails me with feedback, even if the feedback is hard?” (Yes, I read all emails, too, and many have offered valuable insight that I’ve tried to integrate.)
“Yes. Because you can write them back. There’s a relationship there. They’ve exposed themselves to you in some way. That requires vulnerability.”
Rationally, I don’t care about the review, nor do I feel particularly defensive: Having co-hosted a very popular show for many years, a lot of feedback crossed my transom, most of it conflicting: I talk too much, or I should talk and share more. I do too much reading and prep, or I’m the only host who preps, or I’m not prepared enough. I have the best, most soothing voice, or I sound like nails on a chalkboard and I should see an ENT about my vocal fry. And on, and on, and on. I also know that if I take in negative feedback, I must also take in positive feedback.
But, I still thought about this conversation with my therapist for weeks, particularly as it coincided with the revelation about the etymology of vulnerability. It unlocked something for me, particularly regarding self-protection: I have become so entranced by vulnerability as the end-all-be-all that I started to believe it was anathema to armoring myself from anything at all. I think many of us do this, feeling obligated to walk through life with our necks bared. But as I learned that day in therapy, vulnerability is more complex. It’s too high stakes.
I now start every morning with a short prayer asking that I be shielded from anything I’m not meant to see. I accept protection. Because my therapist was right: I don’t have the energy to spare. And neither do any of you.