by Steve Austin
I didn’t talk to someone I love for nearly a year. We were never really best friends, but it still broke my heart to lose this lifelong relationship. The details of what transpired aren’t nearly as important as the fact that simmers just beneath the surface: vulnerability is scary shit. We both wounded each other. We were angry and scared and hid behind a tough facade, pushing vulnerability away like a side of cold Brussel sprouts.
So many of us do this. Whether we’ve received explicit messages like “dry it up” or “showing emotion is weakness,” or picked up more subtle signals from culture, we’ve all learned to fear vulnerability. It’s difficult, exposing, and can make us feel defenseless and naked. But it’s a crucial step on the journey toward calm.
The lie of modern American culture is this: don’t get naked.
Have sex.
Watch porn.
Get freaky.
But don’t get naked.
The path from chaos to calm begins with honesty. They say the truth will set you free, but it might make you extremely uncomfortable in the process. It strips away all the layers of cultural norms, religious expectation, family secrets, and perfectionism. Do it anyway. Once you start owning your story, no one can take it away from you. No amount of gossip or slander or disengagement can diminish the fact that you are not who you once were. Not giving up in the face of adversity will change you.
Brené Brown says it like this:
When we deny our stories, they define us. When we own our stories, we get to write a brave new ending. I know this is true. I may have learned it as a researcher but I live this truth as a daughter, a partner, a leader, a sister, a mother, and a friend. When we push down hurt or pretend that struggle doesn’t exist, the hurt and struggle own us.11
It’s Okay to Get Nekkid
At the age of ten, I was a chubby, prepubescent blob of nerves. You can imagine just how horrified I was when my Grandpa took me to the YMCA one terrible morning. We walked into the locker room and I was appalled to realize it must have been Senior Citizen Saturday at the Y. Everything had lost its elasticity. Body parts were sagging below other body parts. The room was filled with white-haired old men that looked sort of like whole chickens, vacuum-sealed in the refrigerated section of the grocery store.
But those old men weren’t just naked. They were nekkid. (Okay, it’s the Southern pronunciation of the same word, but this is my book, so I’ll write it how I want.) What is it with old people? They are either more confident than ever, or they’ve spent a lifetime caring about what everyone else thinks and they’re just done. Set the boys free, Gramps.
Truth is, that Saturday wasn’t terrible because these men were strutting around in all their saggy glory. It was because I was petrified of anyone seeing me without clothes on. I found comfort in a hoodie, even on warm days in Alabama. I preferred to wear a t-shirt at the pool because I didn’t have the muscle tone of more athletic boys my age. So I did the mature, brave thing: I tied a towel around my waist and performed the most awkward, shimmying dance to change from street clothes to swimsuit without showing my most vulnerable parts.
My issues with my body and others makes sense when you consider the sexual abuse I endured as a preschooler. My wounds taught me the danger of vulnerability. Growing up in the sometimes-toxic 90’s Evangelical purity culture only reinforced that nothing about my body was good. Girls were taught that sexuality and the female body was evil (“keep everything covered up or you’ll make your brothers in Christ sin”). And we were all taught (either directly or indirectly) that even attraction to another person was bad. We’d better kiss dating goodbye (and kiss nothing else) if we knew what was good for us. During my years in Bible school, we had a purity ceremony, where we were “married to Jesus,” and received a ring—yes, even the guys. (Because Jesus is the lover of my soul, duh.)
I’m much older than the little boy in the locker room with my granddad, but I still don’t like to get nekkid. As uncomfortable and scary as it can be, I’m convinced that everyone needs to do it. Vulnerability empowers us to own our stories. Stripping away the facade and getting gut-level honest about who we are and where we’ve been isn’t easy.
Nothing worth doing is easy. Plenty of people I know wouldn’t be comfortable viewing their own bare forms in the mirror. No one starts out celebrating their scars, the extra weight around the middle, or that funny-shaped birthmark. Still, we all want the freedom of vulnerability, to be nekkid and unashamed, even if we don’t know it yet. Doubt may shiver down our spines when we start to pull off our shirts. But we must learn to embrace ourselves if we are ever going to encourage others to do the same.
Saying Sorry
In the middle of writing this book, I received a two-page, handwritten letter from the loved one I hadn’t spoken to in a year. In essence, he opened up to me and said what we all long to hear when we’ve been wounded: “I am so sorry.” The sad reality is that I was honestly okay with writing him off, but he found the courage to be seen: to be naked and to reconnect. I’m not proud of my initial response, but this is a chapter on vulnerability, so hey, you get the whole story. My loved one’s willingness to value our relationship over his own incredible discomfort taught me, once again, that anything that’s been crushed can be restored. I’m forever grateful for this lesson and for the relationship we’ve been rebuilding since that day.
Part of living honestly is being willing to apologize. Are we willing to be honest about our mistakes, apologize and move forward? Are we ready to stop playing the blame game, start owning our stories and creating our futures?
Just like pebbles dropped in a pond, our actions ripple out and impact those around us. Even if there is no direct impact on the ones we love, the boldness and self-compassion we cultivate each time we share our stories allow us to fight fear, shame, and guilt better than ever before. Instead of unintentionally poisoning the relationships we most care about, we begin to strengthen the ties that bind us.
When we choose to become vulnerable, it is because something inside longs to be courageous, to tell the truth, and to speak the hard-won wisdom. It’s the soul that begs us to tell a better story, one more in line with the truth of our being. We are no longer bound by what the past says about us and our best efforts to keep it hidden. We aren’t trapped by the shameful lies that work so hard to hold us back from the best life has to offer. We are so much more than the residue of a terrible moment.
In the richness of our relationships, we discover a full life. Connection happens on the sacred journey toward wholeness. It shows up bit by bit as we build deeper trust with people we cherish. Regularly practicing vulnerability with your inner circle is vital. Maybe it’s a weekly brunch with your best friend, confession with your priest, or a video chat with your sister who lives out of state. It doesn’t matter how it looks: getting nekkid keeps us open and helps our hearts stay soft and warm. The coldness of everyday life and the demands of work and family can harden us quickly; regular doses of genuine connection is the perfect medicine for weary souls.
In a recent conversation, my friend Laura said, “Wouldn’t it be incredible if, just for a moment, we could all see everyone’s thoughts and secrets? Can you imagine how that would help us understand the person better?” What if we could see the abuse they’ve endured, the shame they were raised under, the pain they’ve experienced? What if we could see the good intentions behind their awkward words? Wouldn’t it make us all more compassionate in our responses if we saw, just for a few grace-filled moments, how alike we are inside?
Anne Lamott said:
We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously, who we were born to be.12
When Naked is Uncomfortable
It’s awkward when a total stranger shucks down in front of us, blinding us with emotional nudity. That’s not what I’m advocating. It’s usually not healthy to overshare with peop
le we don’t know. But these days, in appropriate settings with my inner-circle people, my goal is to take it all off. Vulnerability is now a big part of how I serve others, so I had to find the courage to get honest with myself first.
While I don’t like being the naked grandpa, the first to strip down, it can make a profound difference. Whenever I go first in vulnerability, sharing even the raw parts of my story, I connect with others. That’s true for all of us. When others are doing their best to keep things covered with that awkward towel dance, we can empower them to live honestly. We just need to share our own balance of courageous vulnerability and a gracious invitation to tell the truth.
For the first 28 years of my life, I was scared to death of being seen. My whole life was an awkward towel dance, trying to misdirect attention from the parts I wanted to keep hidden. At the time of my suicide attempt, I thought that if people realized who I was underneath all the layers of performance and people pleasing, they wouldn’t accept me.
Does that sound familiar?
After a few months of individual therapy and marriage counseling, I learned that fear and shame are kissing cousins. They’re always doing their damnedest to keep our pasts under lock and key and our futures as dim and predictable as possible. My wife promised to neither leave nor think less of me for opening the Pandora’s box of my life and laying all my pain, secrets, fears, and shame out in the open. That gave me permission to stop performing and just be a human in need of love, honesty, and a second chance.
I remember the dark days of hiding my truth from the world. It nearly killed me. I buried secrets, pain, fears, and illnesses down deep, praying no one would ever find the real me. Spending a week on a psych ward after my suicide attempt wasn’t my first choice: I was humiliated, defenseless, and scared. I could no longer run from the things I’d always hated about myself, and facing them was the last thing I wanted. But it was a huge step toward learning to own my story and get my life back.
I hope you don’t feel that desperate before you find the courage to own your truth. I can’t encourage you enough to get quiet and plumb the depths of your soul. It might be scary. You might feel defenseless. But give yourself permission to discover and embrace the truth of your being.
Who are you? Isn’t that the question you’ve been asking all your life? Beyond your race, denomination, political convictions, or even your reputation—who are you? Below the noise and distractions, underneath the busyness and expectations—who are you?
What’s your story? Is it your first memory? Maybe the hardest lesson you’ve ever learned? Or your most embarrassing moment? Your biggest screw-up? We’ve all got a story. Some of us are more comfortable sharing than others.
Self-discovery is the first step in getting your life back. It’s time to get honest about who you are. What do you want? And what has been holding you back? If you’re not ready to answer that question yet, stick with me. We’ll get there together, but first, we’ve got to take you from chaos to calm.
The most courageous thing you can do on that journey is harness your inner grandpa, get nekkid, and let it all hang out.
Four:
Fully Known, Fully Loved
I shall know you, secrets
by the litter you have left
and by your bloody footprints.13
—Lola Ridge, 1873
We all have things nobody in the world knows about us. I know I still do. Often, the secret isn’t the important part. Keeping it is. My problem is that I’ve never been good at keeping secrets.
On Friday, October 13, 2006, I finally paid off the beautiful wedding set that included a repurposed diamond from my grandmother’s engagement ring. I called Lindsey’s mom and stepdad to tell them my secret plan to propose at Thanksgiving. I texted photos of the ring and we schemed up details for my grand proposal.
Our scheming was fun, but it didn’t last. The ring burned a hole in my pocket in a matter of hours and my heart was bursting with excitement. I couldn’t possibly hold on for another six weeks. Before the end of night, I was on one knee on the patio of a Chinese restaurant. “I love you. Will you marry me?” was printed on a tiny slip of white paper tucked inside her fortune cookie.
I told you, I’ve never been good at keeping secrets.
What I should probably say is, I’ve never been good at keeping happy secrets. But secrets I’ve been ashamed of? No problem. In fact, one of the most difficult parts of married life for me was a nagging secret I’d held onto for years.
The secret I’d been holding onto for more than a decade was eating me alive. I was terrified to tell Lindsey. How could I possibly confess that one piece of my story? But moving from chaos to calm requires letting other people in, just like we learned in the prior chapter.
Sure, we can learn to be vulnerable with our hopes, dreams, and even the mundane ups and downs of daily life. But secrets are different...or at least they feel that way. If you have one big secret, like I did, it is likely the source of your most significant fear: how can I be thoroughly loved if I am fully known?
For years, I could not bring myself to tell the truth and live into my true identity. I had addictions and secrets and curiosities and a history of abuse and night terrors that I couldn’t possibly tell anyone. I thought the only way to be loved and accepted was to hide everything, including my crippling depression and anxiety.
I couldn’t bear to disappoint one more person, so I learned the song and dance everyone else was doing, and I did it perfectly. I knew the words to say and could quote Scriptures like all my friends, but my inner castle was built on the shifting sand of other people’s opinions and approval. I was so accustomed to performing for others that I didn’t even really know who I was. I just knew I wasn’t the person everyone thought. And I was growing more exhausted with every passing day.
My secret became the most profound contributor to my shame. It started when I was just a boy and continued to build right up until the night I nearly died by suicide. I heard the call of Jesus to “come and rest” all my life, but I was nearly thirty years old, lying in an ICU hospital room, before I realized Jesus was serious. I had permission to be human. To admit I was weak. To ask for help. To allow the power of confession to wash over my soul.
Apparently, I am better at keeping secrets than I realized. But just like the diamond ring in my pocket that crisp October evening, my secret managed to burn a hole in my soul. It always felt like such a toxic story, oozing poison, burying itself deeper into my psyche. It seems that secrets either kill us or resurrect us.
What about you? I bet you probably have at least one minor indiscretion from your past you’d rather not talk about. Who isn’t ashamed of their scars and secrets? Does stigma keep you silent? Do you fear being caught in your addiction? Or shunned if they find out who you love?
What if your church friends found out that you have more doubt than faith these days? How would your tribe respond if you told them you don’t vote like they do? What if your family found out about the affair, the eating disorder, or the child that isn’t really his? Secrets come in all shapes and sizes.
We’re all trying our best to make it on this great big ball of water, air, dust, heartache, loneliness, and joy. And most of us, sadly, are listening to the lies that tell us to keep our mouths shut and our heads down. We’ve honed the fine art of flying under the radar, but are miserable as hell. We try not to rock the boat, offend our families, or embarrass our partners, but we’re drowning beneath the weight of an illusion. These lies are massive stones tied around our necks, pulling us to the ocean’s floor as we gasp and clamor, desperate for air.
But the most dangerous lie about secrets is that we are alone and no one gives a damn about our story. When we believe this lie, we rob the world of our unique perspective on survival and success. If you believe your story doesn’t matter, you’re all alone on your tiny island of insignificance, and hold all those secrets
inside until you die, you have kept your one great gift from the rest of us. No, the gift isn’t your secret. It’s allowing those who care about you to know you completely. Fully known, fully loved.
We’ve all got secrets and stories. We are bound together in an indescribable web of love and loss, triumph and failure. We are not alone, no matter our experiences, mistakes, and wounds. All those ups and downs mix with the beauty and tragedy of daily life, but the one thing that connects us all is the power of story.
Your story.
My story.
The human story.
The big difference between secrets and stories is whether or not we find the courage to share ours with others. If we hold all our experiences inside, fearful that others will trample our traumas and not validate our victories, the stone around our neck continues to grow. The longer we refuse to tell our truth, the deeper those secrets drag us. Secrets threaten to destroy, but all we have to do to defeat a secret is to speak it.
When you hold a story that no one else knows for your whole life, it eventually begins to call to you. At night, it beckons. In the morning, it whispers. In the sunshine or the rain, it makes its presence known. In the middle of a crowd or in the calm solitude, your secret is always there. It knows you, and if you’re anything like me, your secret has been begging to be told.
After years of marriage and two children, Lindsey and I have grown closer than ever. Counseling worked. Reading the work of people like Brené Brown, Ed Bacon, and Paul Young has transformed us. One night after the kids went to bed, we watched a romantic movie, had a couple of drinks, some honest conversation, and ended the evening with some romance of our own.
When I awoke the next morning, I felt more connected to her than I had felt in a long while. I felt a rekindled affection that we didn’t regularly experience in the ho-hum busyness of full-time work and parenting. In the past, I let this deep connection wash over me, but soon after, my secret would show up, whispering to me that I’m a fraud. It told me if I let her in, she would never get close to me again.