You were so vulnerable

"You were so vulnerable in your book," she said, standing in the 58-degree water. "I couldn't believe how honest you were."

I had just submerged my shoulders after walking into the San Francisco Bay, expressing some combination of Oh my f*#^ing God, it's cold! and Why on earth do I love this so much?

The temperature at Horseshoe Cove had dropped since the day before. In the distance, fog enveloped the city, yet the sun was shining through the tall buildings.

I wasn't sure if I was trying to catch my breath from the freezing water or the jaw-dropping scene across the bay. Watching the sunrise brings me a kind of joy and connectedness I never knew was possible.

I took a deep breath and let her words settle as the cold water seeped into my bones.

She was right. I was so vulnerable.

There was a time when a statement like that could have sent me into a tailspin of shame. I would have automatically rewritten the sentence:

You were [way too] vulnerable.

But this morning, I felt quite the opposite.

"Yeah," I answered, with a hint of pride. "It was an incredible journey!"

The truth is, I had wanted to write my story for years. I'd spent two decades listening to the stories of young people as a mentor and nonprofit leader. I saw their outer lives change: doors opened, possibilities expanded, futures shifted.

But what moved me most was what shifted inside: pain transmuted into purpose. Shame into strength. I never saw a phoenix rise, but wow did I feel it.

It's embarrassing to admit, but I wanted that for myself.

When Covid hit, my dad had been through a year of treatment for pancreatic cancer and I knew it was time. Not because he was dying and I could finally tell the truth, but because my story was becoming like the Maya Angelou quote: There’s no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.

And my story wasn't only about what had hurt. It was also about the relationship we had created, something I was proud of. I had asked my dad for closeness, and he had responded.

This man, who could walk into a room and light it up with his warmth and optimism, had allowed me to know him in a deeper way. And I had found the courage to let him know me, too.

I decided to use the long days and agonizing uncertainty to write. I dreamed that someday I might share my tender story with the people I loved, and maybe even with the world.

But I put those thoughts on the other side of an imaginary river. I could see it in the distance, but I focused on the writing as my own private truth-telling journey.

Morning after morning, I sat alone at our game table, smack dab in our living room, before everyone woke up.

Writing helped me process the death of my dad and helped me grieve. It helped me see how much I had changed.

And it helped me uncover the wisdom my life story has taught me:

Sharing what’s inside is a pathway to deeper connection and a more authentic life.

So, yeah. I was vulnerable. In the writing of my story–and in the living of it too, I might add!

And it brought me closer to myself, to the people I love, and to the water, where I feel loved, held, and seen.