As a child, I saw my mom suffer terribly next to my alcoholic dad. She was trapped not just emotionally but financially too: she didn’t know how to break free because being alone felt scarier than staying in something that wore her down day by day. My childhood self promised: this will never happen to me. I will never depend on anyone. I will never be vulnerable.
As an adult, I stuck to that promise. I consciously built my life so I could always stand on my own. My own apartment, my own income, my own decisions. Even if a relationship ended, I wouldn’t lose my familiar environment—that was my safety net, woven by myself. And in many ways, that’s a blessing. I believe financial independence is key: it gives freedom, confidence, and stability. But later, I realized I’d also built emotional walls around myself.
I got used to handling everything alone, avoiding asking for help. If I’m having a bad day, I stay quiet. If there’s a problem, I solve it.
I learned that relying on someone is risky because if they leave, I fall with them. So for a long time, I didn’t let anyone get truly close.
The strangest thing is that now, when I’m genuinely happy, I still get scared of this feeling. Because happiness for me isn’t just joy—it’s vulnerability too. When I let someone in, my fate isn’t just mine anymore: their choices, moods, presence—or absence—affect me. And that thought is scary.
For a long time, I thought love meant two people merging and becoming dependent on each other—that’s exactly what I wanted to avoid.
Now, I feel love is also about daring to be vulnerable with each other. But I’m still learning this. In my current relationship, for example, I finally feel that trust doesn’t mean being sure the other person will never hurt me. Of course, I hope not, but nothing’s guaranteed. Still, I believe: if it does hurt, I’ll be able to stand back up.
It’s hard for me to look to the future with optimism. Sometimes I still hold myself back automatically, afraid of being “too happy.”
It’s like happiness is fragile, something you shouldn’t get too used to because life will take it away. Sometimes I don’t let my partner help because deep down I fear that if I show I need him, he’ll see me as weak. Or worse: I’ll see myself that way.
But I know that’s not the answer. A relationship isn’t strong because no one lets their guard down—it’s strong because there’s space for trust. Because I let the other person see when something hurts. Because I dare to be vulnerable and trust that everything won’t fall apart because of it.
The key might be this: accepting that love makes us vulnerable, and that’s part of truly living it. Happiness doesn’t grow in a sterile, safe space—it grows where we take risks. Where we allow someone to see the parts of us we’ve kept hidden.
And yes, it might hurt. Someone might really betray my trust one day. But there’s no point in avoiding possible future pain at the cost of denying myself happiness now. Because maybe the one thing I truly risk losing is the chance to love fully, right here, right now.
