When Vulnerability Feels Like a Risk No One Wants to Take

There’s a certain kind of ache that doesn’t quite have a name.

It’s the ache of having so much love to give—but never really getting the chance to pour it out fully.

Because just when you begin to open your heart, let down your guard, and believe maybe this time…

They leave.

And you’re left holding pieces of affection, loyalty, tenderness, and depth—with no place to put them.

It hurts.

Not just the ending—but the timing of it.

Right when you’re starting to let someone in.

Right when you’re trying to trust that it’s safe.

I carry so much inside of me that I rarely share.

Not because I don’t want to—but because I’ve learned the hard way that vulnerability often comes at a cost.

I’ve watched relationships slip away right after I let my walls down.

And every time that happens, it reinforces the lie that my truth—my emotions, my fears, my depth—is what pushed them away.

But here’s the thing: I know how to love.

And not just in the easy, surface-level way.

I know how to show up. I know how to listen.

I know how to hold someone through their chaos.

I know how to pray for someone in silence when they don’t even know I’m doing it.

I know how to be loyal, patient, soft, present.

So yes, I get tired.

Tired of false starts.

Tired of shallow connections.

Tired of being almost enough.

Tired of wondering if there’s something wrong with me because people don’t stay.

I think a lot about what life could look like if fear and overthinking didn’t constantly hold me back.

If I could just love freely, without feeling like I have to perform or edit myself for the sake of keeping someone around.

But I’ve learned to shrink my love.

To ration it.

To delay it—just to see if the person is even staying first.

That’s not who I want to be.

Because deep down, I want to love fully.

I want to be seen—messy parts and all—and still be chosen.

I want to build something that lasts longer than a season.

Something that holds space for the soft parts of me, the guarded parts, and the deeply faithful parts.

I’ve prayed for love.

I’m constantly working on myself.

I get quiet with God waiting for clarity.

I’ve poured into healing and learned what I deserve.

But it doesn’t make the waiting any less lonely.

It doesn’t stop the ache of loving people who weren’t ready.

It doesn’t make the silence after a goodbye feel any less sharp.

Still—I refuse to give up on the kind of love I know exists.

Because even though it hasn’t shown up in the way I hoped, I believe it’s still out there.

A love that doesn’t leave when I’m honest.

A love that doesn’t ask me to tone it down or hold it back.

A love that reflects the care I’ve given to others, finally returned in full.

I have so much love to give.

And one day, someone will stay long enough to receive it.

Not because I worked harder to keep them.

But because they were ready to stay.

Because I’m not “too much.”

I’m just waiting for the one God chose for me—someone who sees my heart clearly and chooses to stay.