And It Worked

Insecurities are an interesting thing. We treat them like small, shameful secrets, yet we allow them to dominate large swaths of our lives.

For some, that insecurity might be a vice; for others, it’s the shape of their body or the weight of a decade-old mistake. We live in constant fear that we’ll be “branded” by our worst moments, like the child who has an accident in the fourth grade and is never allowed to outgrow it, the moment replayed and renamed until it becomes who they are.

We fear that our slip-ups will become our identity.

But most insecurities are just the byproduct of being human.

They stem from a simple, aching desire to be loved for who we are, complicated by the fear that who we are is somehow not enough.

We were free once. But we learned early what gets us laughed at and labeled. We learned what parts of us were not safe to share.

Psychotherapist Ken Page suggests a shift in perspective: “Our deepest wounds surround our greatest gifts.” He argues that the parts of ourselves we try hardest to fix, to hide, or to polish away are actually the keys to real intimacy.

I’ve spent a long time looking at my own insecurities through a distorted lens. I’ve been deeply afraid of appearing weak or vulnerable, so much so that I mastered the art of seeming cold and distant.

I saw my capacity to feel deeply, my squishy, tender-hearted nature, as a liability.

After being labeled “too emotional,” “neurotic,” or “crazy,” I built a fortress of independence and swore I’d never be perceived that way again. I refused to let my identity be defined by the parts of me others called flaws.

So I traded my empathy for control. For self-sufficiency. For impenetrability. And it worked.

I stopped asking for help because I didn’t want to be seen as needy. But in doing so, I locked away the very things that allow me to truly connect with the people I love.

If Ken is right, letting my “mushy heart” take center stage isn’t an admission of defeat—it’s an offering of my best self.

Embracing vulnerability doesn’t mean losing my strength or independence. It means adding humanity to them.

I’m permitting myself to be whole. Multifaceted. Both tender-hearted and in control.

The truth is, being who I am doesn’t scare me. What scares me is the reveal— of opening those quiet, hidden places only to have them handled carelessly. To feel judged at my most vulnerable.

To hear those words again, “you’re too emotional,” “neurotic,” “crazy.”