As I settled into my new apartment, I felt completely numb. It hadn't quite hit yet, that I had done it. My faith had become greater than my fear. I moved to Nigeria.
In my head, there is a room. In this room, there is nothing but a single chair and a door—always locked—and no matter what I do, I can never reach the handle. This room has been with me since I was a child. A place I created to mourn and make sense of young traumas. A childhood trap.
We aren’t born with wounds.
We aren’t born with beliefs of who we aren’t.
We aren’t born needing protection.
As a creator and even in my life, vulnerability has been something I’ve found myself struggling with lately. I want so desperately to give of myself freely and unabashedly to the world, but putting my guard down to do that can sometimes be overwhelming, if not terrifying. To me, it means opening up my whole self for judgement, for ridicule, for someone else to view me the way I often times have viewed myself—which hasn’t always been the most flattering. Sometimes, I even fear praise. Your added attention just reminds me that I am naked and exposed. Luckily, I am now journeying back to myself. I am learning that vulnerability is not about opening ourselves up to judgement, but to possibility.
Vulnerability invites courage into our lives. It requires surrender and reinforces our faith. It’s found in the moments between closed eyes and open hearts. It lives in the contemplation of ideas that challenge our identities, who we think we are, and what we believe we represent. Vulnerability means stepping outside of your comfortable mental walls, exposed somehow, to the great unknown.
"You wanna fly? You gotta give up the shit that weighs you down.” Toni Morrison