I opened my heart, expecting to be held.
Instead, I was blindsided.
I stepped into the sacred space of my men’s group, heart in hand, ready to lay it bare. I set a boundary to protect my vulnerability. And then, like a wrecking ball, someone shattered it in the name of “help.” I couldn’t have known then that good intentions would leave such deep scars.
There were four of us men. The energy of our space was always thick with unspoken truths and anticipation. We gather weekly, not to fix engines or debate sports, but to practice being good men. Whatever that means.
I joined this brotherhood to practice vulnerability. To be held. To hold others. It was a noble pursuit lined with thorns of discomfort and the promise of growth. Little did I know, one ordinary evening would become an extraordinary lesson in the power of words and the sanctity of boundaries.
The Digital Campfire where My Vulnerability Got Burned
Our group had an app—a digital campfire where we’d share our thoughts between meetings. Sometimes it was a quick “hey, thinking of you guys.” Other times, it was a deep dive into the depths of our souls, echoing with the drip-drip-drip of raw emotion. Unusually refreshing for a group of men.
On this particular day, I felt a yearning to let a part of my experience – the context of emotional pain I’ve been living with – to be seen and held.
I shared a story so tender, so vulnerable, it felt like I was offering up my still-beating heart on a silver platter. The words flowed from me like water from a broken dam, a torrent of truth I couldn’t hold back if I tried.
But here’s the thing about vulnerability—it leaves you exposed. Raw. And sometimes, a little scared.
So, I did something I’d been practicing in my life and work. I made a clear request and set a strong boundary for the specific type of response that would feel supportive. Clear as a bell on a frosty morning, I said:
“I invite your witness. I welcome your inquiry. But please, please, ask for consent before offering advice or challenges.”
It was a small ask, really. A little fence around my tender sharing to keep it safe while it found its footing in the world.
Two of my brothers heard the tremor in my voice, saw the flashing neon sign of my need. They stepped up, strong and sure, honoring my request with the reverence it deserved. Their responses were a balm to my exposed nerves, a gentle “I see you” that didn’t try to fix or change my experience.
But the third man… oh, the third. Young in years, younger in wisdom. He came at my vulnerability not with care, but force—like a hand reaching into an open wound.
I had laid out a simple boundary: Witness me. Ask before offering advice. Instead, he steamrolled in with solutions, as if my pain was a puzzle he could solve.
I felt it in my bones, in the pit of my stomach, in the clenching of my jaw. This wasn’t just dismissal—it felt like assault. An invasion of the sacred space I’d requested, a violation of the trust I’d placed in our circle – and a violation of the agreements we, as a group, had all subscribed to.
Thank God, I wasn’t the only one who saw it. The others stepped in, too—naming what had just happened for what it was.
But he didn’t see it. He bristled at the idea that he had done harm. His good intentions should have been enough, he argued. His advice was meant to help. What was wrong with that? After all, we were learning to be men and to stand for something and he wasn’t gonna just back down because someone else didn’t like it.
I watched him dig in his heels, unwilling to consider the possibility that support without consent isn’t support at all. And something inside me ached – not just for me, but for all of us who’ve ever mistaken our perspective for universal truth, who’ve rushed in to “fix” when all that was needed was presence.
My heart ached for all the people in his life who would feel this same wound, who might not even have the words to name it.
Maya Angelou’s words surfaced in my mind: “When someone shows you who they are, believe them… the first time.”
I wanted to believe he would see it, that he would understand. But I also knew: Seeing requires willingness, and willingness cannot be forced.
I knew in my heart that his intentions were good. But good intentions never erase the impact of harm.
The Wisdom Came Through “For Me”
I left that conversation raw. Unsettled. A tightness in my chest, a question in my mind: How many times had I done the same?
How many times had I believed so deeply in my own perspective that I trampled over someone else’s truth without even realizing it?
That night, the lesson settled into my bones, and it has never left me.
I do not know the way forward. I do not have the answer. I do not possess the key that unlocks another’s growth.
This realization was both humbling and liberating. It stripped away the arrogance of assumed knowledge and replaced it with the wisdom of curiosity. It taught me that true connection, true support, comes not from having all the answers, but from being willing to sit in the questions together.
So now, when I sit with a client or pen words for the world to read, I carry this truth close to my heart.
I’ve learned to preface my thoughts with “For me…” or “In my experience…” — not as a disclaimer, but as an invitation. An invitation to explore, to question, to find resonance or discord in the unique landscape of another’s life.
I’ve come to understand that my own experience, no matter how profound, is but a single note in the grand orchestration of human existence.
I used to think that my experiences gave me wisdom. Now I see that wisdom isn’t about knowing—it’s about listening.
My Experience Is Just a Reflection
This journey hasn’t been easy.
For most of my life, I performed. Abandoning my own experience to meet the expectations of others was survival. It kept me safe in a world that often rejected my truth.
I learned to distrust my own experience. Shame crept in like a toxic fog, whispering that I shouldn’t feel the way I felt. That I was wrong for being me.
But healing taught me a different way.
At first, it was labored, deliberate—like learning to breathe all over again. But in time, I found something softer: the ability to hold my truth with love, respect, and grace.
Then, for a while, I swung too far the other way.
I thought my experience was THE experience. That because it was valid, it must also be right. And I wielded my truth like a sword instead of an offering.
Time, and many humbling interactions, softened me. I learned that my experience, no matter how true for me, will never be universal. That’s not a loss – it’s an invitation.
An invitation to share, to connect, to bridge the gap between our individual realities with curiosity and empathy instead of certainty.
Brené Brown reminds us: empathy is not just understanding and feeling someone else’s experience, but also as believing them in their experience – even when it differs from our own.
This goes both ways—we extend this empathy to others, yes, but also to ourselves.
It’s about believing our own experience, even when it differs from what the world tells us it should be. It’s okay to question, to interrogate our experiences, but we must do so with presence, not shame. With love, not violence.
So here I am, still stumbling towards love. Still learning.
The scars on my knees tell the story of my many falls. And I know—some people I love bear scars too, from the times I’ve forgotten and acted as if I knew better than them.
I admit–I can be (and often am) as messy as the brother in my former men’s group.
But these days, I try to walk with more awareness. More care. More humility. More willingness to offer not advice, but experience. Not universal truths, but personal discoveries.
Because wisdom doesn’t demand we have the answers. It invites us to listen, to hold space, to bear witness to another’s truth—without needing to make it our own.
And as I journey through this wild, wonderful life, alongside you, I remind myself:
My stories are mine. My experiences, unique. I share them not as gospel, but as offerings and invitations—gentle reflections of our beautiful, messy humanity. Because in the end, we are never truly alone.
For me, wisdom lives in the spaces between words. In the silence of true presence.