Vulnerable

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines “vulnerable” as “open to attack or damage.” It’s a word that’s always intrigued me because we’ve been conditioned to believe that vulnerability is a weakness, an invitation for harm. Society tells us to armor up, to protect ourselves, as if everyone is waiting in the wings, poised to strike at our weakest moments. The rise of social media has given way to a legion of keyboard warriors who seem ready to pounce at the first sign of openness. And yet, isn’t surviving those attacks what makes us stronger, more resilient, and more deeply grounded? Through our trials, we emerge as warriors in our own right.

Amid the chaos, though, there’s something that often goes unnoticed—the community of support that exists alongside those who seek to tear us down. We see “pay it forward” posts everywhere, but how often do we witness the full circle? Rarely do we hear about the stranger’s kind word that saved someone’s life or how one person’s story of struggle gave another the courage to face their own. Vulnerability, while frightening, paradoxically makes us stronger.

It’s time to shift our perspective on vulnerability, especially in the workplace. To lead by example, I’m going to open up to my own network—something I’ve been afraid to do. I’ve feared judgment, the comparisons, the whispers of “others have had it worse.” But I’m not a victim of my circumstances; I’m a survivor. A warrior. I am continually evolving into the strong, empowered person I was meant to become. I’ve earned my scars.

**

I’ll never forget the day my life changed forever. Mike, my husband, and I had just bought a new grill, and we were planning a family cookout, trying to make his mom’s recent move smoother for everyone. That morning, we’d had a silly argument about folding towels (#marriedlife). Before Mike left to grab his wallet from the office, he kissed me softly on the back of my neck and whispered, “You know we weren’t really arguing about towels, right?” I smiled, telling him I knew. He leaned in, whispered, “I love you,” a final “I love you,” I heard him tell our oldest daughter he loved her and would be right back as he shut the door behind him.?

About fifteen minutes later, something in my soul felt wrong. I texted him. No response. I called. Still nothing. Panic began to set in. I grabbed my purse, charger, and shoes, told my daughter I needed to help daddy, and hurried out the door, calling him again and again. The drive to the office stretched on forever, though it was just minutes. As I pulled up, I saw his car. I saw him inside, his head tilted back as if asleep. But something wasn’t right.

I don’t remember how I got to the car or when I started banging on the window, trying to wake him. I must have called 911, but that part’s a blur. I remember the operator’s voice, walking me through CPR as I struggled to pull my husband, all six feet and 230 pounds of him, out of the car. The next thing I knew, first responders were pulling me away, asking questions I couldn’t comprehend.

For nearly 30 minutes, I watched them try to resuscitate Mike. Thirty agonizing minutes. I remember being alone when one responder knelt next to me, his words stuck somewhere in his throat, as if telling me Mike was gone was too much for him to bear. I remember a deputy standing behind me, unable to meet my eyes when I asked if it was true. He just turned and walked away. I screamed at them to keep trying, pleading through tears about our three children, our one-year-old, and the life we were supposed to have together.

Somewhere, my phone took two photos of the scene—Mike on the pavement, surrounded by EMS. I didn’t see the pictures until days later, but that image of him, the final image, is seared into my memory.

After hours of waiting for the reports, ignoring phone calls from my daughter and mother-in-law felt like a dagger to the heart. But nothing compared to coming home, walking upstairs with officers, and telling my daughter her daddy wasn’t coming back. Watching her world shatter into a billion tiny shards of light and tears reflecting in her eyes while hearing my mother-in-law’s wails downstairs- it's a memory that still haunts my dreams.

In the days that followed, my house was filled with family and friends, but after the funeral, an eerie silence settled. Reality set in. I was alone. My children had no father. And there was an unknown path ahead, one I had no choice but to forge.

Weeks later, I stood in the rain, shattered, a broken wine glass in my hand, blood mixing with rain, and my best friend holding me up as I finally released all the pain and sadness I had bottled up. I was exhausted, my soul in pieces, trying to hold it together for the sake of my kids.

Even now, as I sit surrounded by textbooks and notes, writing papers late into the night while my children sleep, my focus is unwavering. Every assignment, every study session, is a step toward the life I’m building for them, a life rooted in my passion for psychology. I no longer juggle Zoom calls with clients, but instead, I pour my heart into understanding the human mind, hoping to make a difference, not only for myself but for the future I envision for our family. My children are my lifeline, just as my pursuit of these dreams is my lifeline to them. Vulnerability is no longer something to shy away from; it’s the foundation on which I’ve rebuilt myself. Each moment of struggle, each tear I’ve shed, has shaped me into a stronger version of the person I’m becoming.

There is life before Mike and life after Mike. My trauma doesn’t define me, but it’s woven into my story. He left a legacy, not just in the form of the company we built together, but in our children and the strength they witness in me every day. Two months after his death, I stood at a crossroads. Together with my best friend, I rebranded his company, navigating the storm of grief and uncertainty. But now, my path has shifted. My focus has turned toward earning my psychology degree, toward making a better life for our children through understanding and growth. Everything I do is still in Mike’s honor, but now, it’s also for the future I’m building for them.

Please don’t mistake my vulnerability. Vulnerability isn’t easy; it’s the most difficult journey I’ve faced. But it’s not my weakness. It’s my strength, the driving force behind every dream I’m working toward.