Vulnerability is strength.
That sentence sounds outright Orwellian although, unlike the dystopian slogans George Orwell invented for his novel Nineteen Eighty-Four (“War is peace.” “Freedom is slavery.” “Ignorance is strength.”), it is profoundly true and uplifting.
So let’s extol the virtues of intentional frailty, of showing the soft underbelly, of standing down when others stand rigid, of letting it all hang out, of looking the fool, of wearing it on your sleeve.
Does all that sound kind of wimpy, a little too touchy-feely? Might makes right, right? Only the good die young, right?
Mindfulness instructor Tamara Levitt identifies the unyielding attitude expressed in these phrases as offering “the illusion of emotional security.” In our society we laud the sentiments of such phrases as “standing strong,” “toughing it out,” “brooking no compromise.” Often the expressions are flagrantly gendered: “acting like a man,” “being manly,” or, more vulgarly, “having some balls” and “not being a pussy.” These, we assure ourselves, are the mottos of flinty warriors and hardened veterans — those who win through sheer grit.
But what if Levitt is correct? What if such outward red-meat utterances offer only the appearance of emotional strength? What if something else lurks underneath? Think of a hard candy that, after some resistance, suddenly yields to the crushing pressure of your molars before melting into a sweet gooey center that then disappears down your throat. Compare that hard candy to chomping into soft taffy and you get the idea. The former will resist a bit before utterly yielding while the latter is just as likely to yank a filling from your head before you get the best of it.
Emotional security is not represented by a slogan. It is not an attitude. It is not a public stance. Emotional security is entirely intrinsic to the individual and marked by a firm confidence tempered by human decency.
On July 27, 2021, four police officers testified in front of a House select committee to investigate the January 6th attack on the Capitol. All four were men, all seasoned officers, a couple of whom had served in the military. While testifying, they each grew emotional and some even cried. Two congressmen (one an Air National Guard officer) also shed tears. The backlash from certain quarters was predictably vicious, calling them any number of names (usually from within the safe space of anonymity or from positions of unassailable power) for showing their humanity while recounting episodes of inhumanity.
Think of what it takes to live and work in the still-hypermasculine worlds of law enforcement and the military and to be willing to show your emotions — yes, anger, but also sorrow and fear — on the national stage. Indeed, their emotional responses made their testimony all the more powerful as it exemplified and emphasized their sincerity. Their display of vulnerability required temerity and fortitude. Their apparent vulnerability was a show of courage and strength.
Similarly witness the near-simultaneous travails of Simone Biles, the greatest of all gymnasts. She dropped out of the (2020? 2021?) Olympics just when she was to make her boldest and final mark on her sport. We soon learned that she made this difficult decision in response to suffering a mental confusion — the twisties — that gymnasts and some other types of athletes are susceptible to. We mere mortals will never know what it is like to propel our bodies through the air, rapidly twirling and flipping, only to suddenly lose our orientation. Rather than plod on and imperil her physical and mental well-being, she just stopped.
Consider in this context 1996’s Kerri Strug, a gymnast who is most famous for one thing, continuing an Olympic routine with a broken ankle, a choice that won her accolades and a gold medal but ended her career. We cheered her moxie, a tiny eighteen-year-old wincing in agony but standing tall. She was a symbol of America’s can-do spirit, but we ignored her humanity and the price she was paying for that moment and that medal.
The comparison between Biles and Strug is inherently loathsome as we contemplate which woman showed more strength. Was it the one that plowed ahead heedless of the consequences to herself and her career, or the one who stepped back heedless of the opprobrium that the brutal set would heap upon her? I am not sure of the answer or even if there is an answer that matters, but I recall and respect the wisdom of the proverb “discretion is the better part of valor.” Sometimes it is best to hold back to fight another day. Strug was heroic. She earned her medal and her time in the spotlight. Then that moment of glory, along with her career, was largely over before her nineteenth birthday. Biles has preserved her ability to return in whatever form she chooses: active athlete, retired champion, anything.
Purposeful Vulnerability: A Source of Strength in Our Lives.
Levitt observes that intentional vulnerability allows us to “let go of who we think we should be in order to step into something better” and helps us “tap into our common humanity.” To be vulnerable is to access humility and empathy in its best sense — not mawkish wallowing in the appropriation of another’s suffering but the opportunity to adopt another’s point of view and to grasp its meaning and its truths.
In our typical models of leadership, vulnerability is out of place. But, as Levitt so eloquently and insightfully puts it, “When we are brave enough to be vulnerable, we often speak for those who aren’t brave enough to speak for themselves.” That is exactly what those four police officers were doing, speaking for those who had been silenced either by society or death. That is what Biles is doing as well, making it safe for others to admit their flaws, and, impressively, athletes of all stripes are seeing themselves in her and speaking out. She is the greatest gymnast of all time, and even she has flaws. Imagine.
The best leaders are the ones who embrace their vulnerability rather than fear it.
Leadership is not just a matter of pointing and going with the hope that others will follow. True leadership requires a self-confidence that can only be borne of candid self-awareness and a drive for learning and self-improvement. Such leaders are both resilient and adaptable — not rigid and immutable. They neither bend in a light breeze nor break in a gale.
Vulnerability is much the same, demanding resolve and resilience, and the more you exercise those qualities, the stronger you get. Choosing to be vulnerable also requires self-confidence. As a feature of the best leaders, manifest vulnerability engenders trust and loyalty. A vulnerable leader, after all, is a human leader, and evident humanity is the most vital quality of any truly successful leader.
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