What Brené Brown Taught Me About Vulnerability
Last week, somewhere between the fourth drink and the last goodbye at my office holiday party, I realized something about loneliness. Not the obvious kind that hits when you’re alone in your apartment on a Sunday night. No — this was the strange, suffocating kind that finds you in a room full of people.
The party was perfect, technically speaking. Drinks flowing, music humming, familiar faces everywhere. I knew all these people — their names, their roles, their weekend plans. Too many to properly chat with, actually. That should have felt good, right? Connected? Instead, I found myself going through the motions: nodding at vacation stories, asking about kids, laughing at the right moments. A perfect performance of belonging.
“People don’t make friends at work anyway,” I’ve told myself a hundred times. It’s my favorite excuse — sounds wise, professionally bounded, and mature. But here’s the truth I keep running from: I want real connections. I know it’s the most important thing in life. And somehow, I keep talking myself out of reaching for it.
The rain started on my way home. Not a gentle drizzle but the kind that feels like hail, like something was literally crashing down on me. Maybe it was the alcohol making everything feel more intense, or maybe it was just time for my carefully constructed walls to break. Standing there, watching my shoes get soaked, I felt something crack open inside me — a truth I’d been dancing around all night: I was really good at being around people and terrible at letting them in.
I made it home (safely) and passed out, but that feeling followed me into the morning. You know that peculiar emptiness that comes after a night of almost-connections? That’s what had me scrolling through YouTube at 9 AM, nursing a hangover and looking for… something. That’s when I found Brené Brown’s TED talk about vulnerability. Or maybe it found me — funny how the algorithm sometimes knows exactly what wound you’re trying to understand.
Here’s what I learned — not just intellectually, but in that bone-deep way that changes how you move through the world:
1. What we really want from life (though we rarely admit it)
It’s simple and devastating at once — connection. Not the surface-level kind, but the real kind, the kind that is raw, the kind that makes you feel seen, the kind that makes you feel you belong, the kind that celebrates your uniqueness. Connection is written into our DNA, this yearning to lay our heads down at night knowing we’re part of something larger than ourselves. Brown calls it our birthright, this desire to belong, and insists it’s the only reason we’re here.
I spent twenty-eight years telling myself stories about what I wanted — more money (because doesn’t that solve everything?), more stamps in my passport (because isn’t that what living means?), more nights out that blur into mornings (because isn’t that what they call fun?). I was good at it too, this self-deception. But sitting there, watching Brown’s talk through my hangover haze, I finally understood: at the root of everything — every achievement, every move, every carefully filtered photo — all I really wanted was connection.
2. What we do instead
We run from connection like it’s a threat rather than the very thing we’re hungry for. The moment a conversation inches toward something real, watch how quickly we change the subject. See how expertly we’ve mastered small talk, perfected our social scripts, crafted different versions of ourselves for different crowds. Anything to avoid being seen too closely.
I notice it in myself all the time. The quick joke when things get too serious. The practiced answers about work and hobbies. The way I can talk for hours without saying anything that matters. I’ve gotten so good at it that sometimes I almost fool myself into thinking these surface-level interactions are enough.
We build walls so high we can barely see over them ourselves. Guard our soft spots like secrets. Hide our flaws behind carefully curated personas — as if only perfect people deserve connection. We’re all walking around with masks so well-crafted we forget we’re wearing them, playing at being flawless while our real selves stay safely hidden away.
The real question is: what are we hiding from?”
3. Why we do this
The answer, Brown says, is shame. People experience shame differently — some feel it as unworthiness, others as not belonging, and many as not being enough. But at its root, shame always asks the same haunting question: Is there something about me that, if other people know it or see it, would make them think I’m not worthy of connection?
Shame shows up like this: I’m not successful enough. Not smart enough. Not thin enough. Not interesting enough. Not far enough along in life. Not perfect enough. Each ‘not enough’ a reason to hide, to keep our distance, to stay safely behind our walls.
I know shame in the most personal ways: walking through school hallways in torn shirts and scuffed shoes, watching my mom go door to door selling soaps to make ends meet, spending those nights when my dad had one drink too many. For years, I felt I was not enough and I didn’t know what to do with it.
Then Brown shared something that changed everything: this feeling is universal. Everyone carries some version of shame — except those incapable of human connection in the first place. (Strange how the very thing we think makes us unworthy of connection is actually proof that we’re wired for it.)
4. The way forward
We can’t outrun shame, and we definitely can’t numb it. When we try to shut down the hard feelings — the vulnerability, the fear, the uncertainty — we end up numbing everything else too. Joy, gratitude, love — they all get muted in our attempt to feel less. It’s like trying to dim just one light and accidentally shutting down the whole house.
But Brown’s research revealed something fascinating: some people have figured out how to live with their shame instead of running from it. She calls them ‘wholehearted’ people — not because they’re perfect, but because they’ve embraced being imperfect. They have this radical belief that connection happens when we allow ourselves to be seen, really seen, even with all our messiness.
These people make different choices: they say “I love you” first, they share their ideas even when their voice shakes, they act even when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.. They’ve figured out something most of us are still learning — that vulnerability isn’t weakness, it’s the only path to real connection.
If you’re looking for actionable ways to build connection:
- Let yourself be seen, deeply seen, vulnerably seen
- Love with your whole heart, even when there’s no guarantee
- Practice gratitude and joy in moments of uncertainty
- Believe that you’re enough, just as you are
- Be kind to yourself first, then extend that kindness to others
- Share your story — your real, messy, beautiful story
If this resonated with you — if you too want real connection more than anything — find me on Instagram (@visual_minimalist) and don’t be afraid to say Hi.
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Lastly, I hope this year you find the courage to be vulnerable and open yourself to a real connection with the world. Because maybe that’s all of us really want — to be seen, to belong, to connect in ways that matter.
With Light & Love,
Harsh Darji
