Last week at work, we had a massive order to complete in seven days. As the deadline approached, I told someone in a different department that I might cry because I was overwhelmed by the impossibility of the workload. Someone above me overheard my concern, looked horrified, and “jokingly” scolded me for showing our team’s weaknesses. I laughed politely and continued working, but as the day went on, I couldn’t help but scratch my head in confusion.
Does speaking the truth about an impossible situation make me weak?
Does showing emotion equal weakness?
Why is weakness feared?
What is the actual definition of weakness?
When did our culture program us to hide our so-called weaknesses?
When I was in fifth grade, my grandpa Cronkright passed away. At nine years old, this was my first experience with death. What I remember most about his death is that my parents were emotionally absent. They didn’t even have a conversation with me about what happened. I was left to navigate incredibly complex and heavy emotions in silence. There was an unspoken expectation to appear unphased during, before, and after the funeral. I learned, at nine years old, that sadness, grief, and vulnerability were unacceptable while around my family.
I don’t share these stories to bash the people in my life. We are all doing the best we can with what we have. I share because I don’t think my stories are unique. To be human is to experience things that rock us to the core, stirring up big, messy emotions. And in return, we are taught to deal with those emotions by ignoring them.
Culturally, we believe stuffing everything down, wearing a fake smile, and being a robot is strength. We’re praised for overtime hours, toxic positivity, running on four hours of sleep, and shot-gunning Red Bulls. Collectively, we are so disconnected from ourselves that any sign of vulnerability or realness is considered a weakness.
I have always been an extremely emotional person. One of my greatest strengths as a Pisces is emotional intelligence. To say I shed a daily tear is not an exaggeration. I fell in love with alcohol and bulimia because they numbed me just enough to keep my big emotions in check. They were, quite literally, survival mechanisms in an emotionally unsafe world. To be seen as strong and successful, I had to detach from my intuitive nine-year-old self, obey cultural norms, and never show emotional “weakness.”
Yesterday was the third anniversary of my Tempest (now Monument) membership. Being a part of this community has taught me that my emotions have nothing to do with weakness and everything to do with strength. I ignored my emotional intelligence for decades, and it nearly killed me. Practicing vulnerability in a supportive community brought me back to life. Being present enough to embody the full spectrum of emotions is, in my opinion, the true definition of strength.
The next time someone tells me to hide my emotional weaknesses, I will remember my nine-year-old self.
I will remember that our culture feeds us confusing and harmful messages about what it means to be strong.
I will remember Brene Brown, who taught me that vulnerability is the opposite of weakness.
I will remember that vulnerability is, in fact, our most accurate measurement of courage.
Progress.