V is for . . .

 

V Is For Vulnerability 

I confess, I’m not comfortable with my own vulnerability. At least I haven’t been for many, many years. It’s disconcerting feeling vulnerable . . . like an open wound that at any moment could have lemon juice poured into it. The control freak in me shuns it; inching ever further out of arms reach. To have someone see your soft exposed underbelly. I long for the freedom I once had, but have come to the realization that in order to have that . . . I must get comfortable with the uncomfortable.

 

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