The cost of Vulnerability

A conversation between two

Recently, I was sitting with a good friend of mine. We were having one of those conversations that feels casual but carries a certain depth. I’m not sure whether it’s because I love stories or because I’m a good listener, but I truly appreciate how easily he opens up to me and lets me into the private corners of his life. Maybe, deep down, I’m a little jealous of how effortlessly some people can share personal things, while for me, it often feels like I have to cut through a million shortcuts just to say one simple truth.

Most of the books I read—about 97%—are novels, and that’s been the case since I was ten. The other 3% are self-help books, which I only began exploring at university. I’m very selective with those, though. Honestly, I was born to read novels.

In 2015, I discovered writing. At first, it was poetry. I would write and perform here and there. But over the years, it shifted from poetry to pieces about life—moments, thoughts, and experiences—which I still write today. So, I write, and I love it; if I’m not reading, I’m writing.

My first blog site came to life in 2016. Since then, I’ve never written any fictional thing, it has always been pieces of myself that I chose to share. But that first site crashed; I still don’t know what went wrong with WordPress. So, I shut it down. I started again with a local company hosting my second site, but I struggled to pay for it consistently, and eventually, I lost it. Still, I wasn’t ready to stop. I created a third site—and that’s when the madness began.

Around that time, I was battling mental health issues. Almost everything I wrote circled around depression or the heavy things I was carrying. It was the toughest period I’ve ever experienced. Eventually, I started questioning myself: Was I oversharing? Was I putting too much of my life out there for strangers to dissect? The thought consumed me. I even struggled to make the payments to keep my blog up, but my man stepped in to help. (Sometimes we have to put down the “independent girl” act and accept help, right?). Still, I shut it down too—this time with no plan of ever starting another one. I convinced myself that journaling privately was safer than running a digital diary. I thought I had finally won the battle between my heart and mind.

It used to be easy for me to open up, to share pieces of myself. I even enjoyed it. Then, suddenly, it became one of the hardest things I could do.

That same friend I mentioned earlier once asked me why I never talk about myself. I told him the truth: it’s really hard for me to open up. (But then again, if people want to know, they should ask—sibyo rata?). Over the years, I’ve developed trust issues. Don’t ask me why. I just know I need 100% assurance that my anxieties, fears, and insecurities will be safe with someone.

Still, I’m not completely silent. I love stories, and sometimes I tell mine. I underline lines in books that speak to me, or I come across a stranger—living miles away—who shares my reality. There’s something comforting about that, something hopeful. It’s a reminder that I’m not alone in figuring life out.

I remember the comments people used to leave on my blog—especially from those going through similar struggles. One comment from 2023 stuck with me. A lady wrote: “You just put my life into words. I cannot write like you, but you told my story, and it feels good to read it from someone else.” Others wrote equally beautiful things, and for a while, it felt like my words were carrying pieces of people’s lives too.

But the overthinker in me couldn’t resist the urge to shut everything down and keep it all to myself.

Still, I love writing—and part of me loves sharing too. Even when I can’t say things out loud, I can write them. Writing is therapy for me. It helps me breathe, helps me unload, helps me rest. I don’t write for likes or shares (though you’re free to do that, lol). I write to keep my brain alive and calm.

Being vulnerable is not easy. If someone opens up to you, be a safe place for them. Respect the fact that they chose you. Understand the privilege of carrying someone’s piece of themselves with you. And also, cherish the people who give you space to be vulnerable, those who listen to your ramblings, your fears, your heart races. It costs strength on both sides, because not everyone knows how to listen, and not everyone dares to be vulnerable.

So, I chose to write again. I built a new site from scratch, and God knows I did an amazing job this time. Sometimes I wonder if I should write a certain piece, but then I remember all the books I’ve read and the countless lives I’ve carried within me. Maybe that’s what writers do—we share lives.

Of course, I don’t share everything. I only give glimpses. I have my safe space for the rest. Even Jesus had His inner circle—I have mine too, and I am grateful for them.

So here I am, with my digital diary. I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable here, without guilt. I love this space. I love my blog, isn’t it cute? Sometimes I even visit it like a normal reader and feel proud of myself.

“Mukazi, can I ask you something? And please be honest,” the friend asked. My heart started racing immediately. I was nervous, almost terrified to go into that room of truth—but I answered anyway. Maybe one day, slowly—molo molo—I’ll get there.

Dear reader,

What do you think it costs to be vulnerable?