There is something deeply unsettling about realizing that the box you once filled with everything you thought you did not need, and threw away deep into the ocean years ago has floated back to shore, carried by hands that were not your own.
This box was a space where I tucked away all the things I thought I could live without. My own definitions of weakness, vulnerability, and even a basic human need. Not food, not shelter, not safety, but something subtle and far less tangible, genuine human-human connection. The kind where you are seen for who you truly are.
For years, I convinced myself I didn’t need it. That it wasn’t essential to be truly seen, so I stayed hidden, blending into the social norms, carrying on as if strength meant self-sufficiency. And for a while, it worked, or so I thought. But what I called strength was really just endurance. Human connection is not just an accessory to life, it’s a lifeline. Without it, life functions, but it does not flourish. With it, life softens, expands, and reminds us we were never meant to merely survive alone.
I presume this is where really my armor was born. Or maybe after dumping what I wanted to throw into the box, the box itself gave me the armor. I thought it was a decent and a very practical gift in that instance, but it is only now that I realize it was not.
When the box was found by anonymous hands, for a moment I felt empty. I had buried it with such a finality in my mind that I convinced myself it no longer existed. And yet, there it was, being held gently in front of me, as though it was revered, rather than being seen as something to fear from. I told the ‘hands’ that it was locked and that the key could not be found, but the hands that found it kept silent and didn’t argue, as if they just knew that I was trying to run away from something. This knowing unsettled me.
In that moment, it wasn’t so much the contents of the box that concerned me. It wasn’t even the pain I expected to unfold within me, it was the fact that I was terribly exposed and vulnerable. There was this eccentric notion that someone could witness what’s inside and stay. I was puzzled. It felt like the arms that found the box were trying to teach me something new. Something about human connection and trust, which was not an easy task for me at all!
The hands that found the box did not demand to open the box. They only offered their presence. “I’ll walk with you through every corner.” I found myself wondering, what would it take to let someone walk with me? Truly walk with me through my dark lane? And now, albeit a bit too late, I started to really understand that connection demands trust and integrity.
I now appreciate that trust is not built in grand gestures or declarations. It is shaped quietly in the pauses, in the way someone says, “I’m here,” without asking to be let in. In the way they sit beside your fear without needing to fix it. It actually is in the simplest human gestures, yet we are always inclined to believe or look for those ostentatious moments before we allow ourselves to trust.
Once you allow someone to witness your vulnerability, you are no longer just navigating your own pain, you are now starting the process of taking accountability to own your truth. Human connection, in its purest form, suddenly becomes your compass. Not by pointing us toward others, but rather directing us back inwards, towards who we truly are when we allow ourselves to be honest with ourselves.
To me, going back inwards led me to question not only my integrity, but also my morality. Not in the rigid sense of right or wrong that is widely imposed by the collective minds of society, but rather in the embodied sense of authenticity that arises when my inner self aligns with my decisions on how I want to pursue my life.
Am I willing to trust, not just the hands that were offered to me, but also the fact that I too am worthy of a genuine human connection? That it’s ok to accept help, and not have to walk through the dark parts of past decisions on my own? Can I hold my pain without abandoning myself? Can I remain soft and still have compassion when the world, my culture, my upbringing, my armor, tells me to toughen up?
As I sit with all these muddled-up thoughts, the pride I wore as protection, the vulnerability that initially frightened me, only to reveal its strength, the connections that softened my edges, (albeit anxiously) and now this invitation to trust, I realize I am not the same person anymore.
What I once labeled as weakness; needing help, asking for presence, yearning for understanding, trying to understand what fulfilment in life means to me and not according to the standards set by society, I now see as the birthplace of everything meaningful. I see now that the morality I want to live by isn’t about perfect decisions or rigid ideals. It’s about choosing to respond with truth, compassion, and courage, even when no one is watching, and especially when I am afraid.
I believe morality should not be about judgment but rather a compass to direct us towards who we truly are. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m learning how to hold the compass with steady hands. At this stage, I don’t know if I will have the courage to open the box. But I know this: I am learning that vulnerability is not just an opening of the self, it is a doorway to integrity.
It would be easier for me to run or hide. It’s easier to say, “the key to this box is lost.” It’s even easier to pretend the box never existed. But the cost is authenticity. The cost is freedom. And maybe, just maybe, those hands are not here to revive me, but to witness me saving myself.
This journey is certainly not linear. It spirals, circles back, unravels and stitches itself again in unexpected ways. I still feel fear. I still feel resistance. But there’s also a part of me that feels quiet, while another part is growing permission. Permission to be human in all my flaws and contradictions. Permission to open a box I once declared was sealed forever. Permission to allow connection, not only with others, but with myself, even when it feels unsafe.
Those hands may walk beside me, but ultimately, this is my path to walk. And perhaps the true gift of the hands' presence isn’t that they found the box, it’s that they remind me that I am still allowed to open it. That I don’t have to do it alone, that being held doesn't make me any less strong or less worthy.
For years, I thought I could go through life’s’ crusades alone. I told myself strength was self-sufficiency, that being unseen was easier than being vulnerable. I realize now that what I called strength was only endurance. True connection isn’t optional, it’s what makes life more than survival. It is what makes us human.
The compass is quietly pulsing within me. It doesn't scream directions. It doesn't demand answers. It simply points gently and persistently toward the life that is waiting to be lived, not in spite of my wounds, but through them.
If there is one thing I know now, it is this: The journey from pride to vulnerability, to connection, to trust, and finally to integrity, is the journey back to myself. Somehow, life has its ways to show you the difference between what is necessary for survival, and what really nourishes the soul.
And I’m still walking…
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