“On Vulnerability”

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Dedicated to my siblings

There’s a certain kind of person the world seems to admire—sharp-tongued, composed, deliberate.    He moves through life as if he’s never doubted the sound of his own voice.    His gestures are practiced, his opinions unshakable.    It’s a performance of authority, and to many, it’s compelling.

But I’ve never fit that mold.    I don’t hold myself like someone bracing for a fight with the world.    I don’t presume to master a room.    And more and more, I’ve come to believe that what makes a person is not how forcefully he presents himself, but how honestly he shows up.

Vulnerability has never been fashionable.    It doesn’t draw applause or dominate the stage. But it’s where I’ve found the most truth.    Not in being right, or revered, or untouchable—but in admitting how little I know, how often I’ve failed, and how much of life resists explanation.

We’re taught to act as if we’ve earned our place—through effort, through cleverness, through some innate worth.    But I’ve lived long enough to see how much is assumed, how much is favored, how many doors open not because of merit but because of circumstance, appearance, proximity to power.    The world flatters performance.    It often mistakes loudness for depth, certainty for wisdom.

But beneath all that, we’re fallible—achingly so.    We get things wrong.    We hurt people.    We retreat when we should have stayed, and speak when silence would have been kinder.    We tell ourselves stories to survive, not always to understand.

And yet, that fallibility isn’t shameful.    It’s not a flaw to be punished—it’s the most human part of us.    The mistake is not in being wrong; it’s in pretending we’re not.    Intimacy begins where performance ends—when we stop curating ourselves and let others see what is:    our confusion, our fear, our imperfect love.

I’ve stopped wanting to impress.    I want to be known.    I want to know others—not through their accomplishments or their poses, but through the quiet truths they carry.    I don’t need anyone to be flawless.    I need them to be present, to meet me somewhere beneath the surface.

That, to me, is strength.    Not the kind that commands a crowd, but the kind that sits across from others, unguarded, and says, “Me too. I don’t have it either.”

The world may never reward dishonesty with applause.    But it will reward it with connection—with moments that feel real, human, and lasting.    And in the end, I think that’s the only recognition that ever matters.    Not the illusion of certainty or the performance of strength, but the willingness to return, again and again, to the quiet inside us—the one where we are fallible, open, and fully alive.

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Ricardo F Morin

Bala Cynwyd, Pa; May 28, 2025

Editor:    Billy Bussell Thompson