I spent much of my early life leaning into a lie: that perfection could protect me. If I looked right, acted right, performed well, and kept everyone happy, maybe I could control how others saw me.

I wanted people to like me. Really like me. And because my self-esteem is not particularly strong, rather early in life, I decided the best way to make that happen was to remove as many reasons as possible for someone not to like me.

So I worked hard to always present the best version of myself. I cared a lot about my appearance—my clothes, my hair, all of it. I pursued excellence at school and then later at work. I strived to be “perfectly’ dependable and capable and absolutely loathed making mistakes. I was a peacekeeper and a people pleaser. I wanted to be the best friend, the best employee, the best wife, the best mom. If I could control it, I was going to do my best to control it (believing this lie that it was all on me to control these things).

Looking back now, I think that underneath all of that effort was fear: If I showed any amount of imperfection, would people still like me?

Honestly, it is a bit overwhelming to reflect on that time because it is exhausting to spend that much energy managing what other people think of you. And, of course, perfection is a terrible strategy because eventually life will not cooperate. You make mistakes. Marriage throws challenges at you. Your children struggle. You struggle. You disappoint someone. Someone disappoints you. You discover there are parts of your life you cannot fix with hard work, a good attitude, or a better plan. Essentially, your world just becomes small and overwhelming, because you have closed the door on God’s bigger and infinite perspective.

There was no dramatic moment when I suddenly stopped caring what everyone thought or became completely comfortable with vulnerability. But there did come a point when what God thought of me began to matter more than what others thought. I had spent so much energy chasing perfection that it was exhausting. I still naturally want to do things well, be liked, and get it right, but the motivation has shifted. More and more, I want my life to please God rather than impress people. I still slip. Worry still creeps in. But I am better at recognizing it now and “taking every thought captive” (2 Corinthians 10:5) instead of letting it take over.

I think that point came when God began placing me in communities and circumstances where truth mattered more than appearances. I found myself with women who were willing to talk honestly about their marriages, their families, their faith, and their own struggles. I was invited to begin sharing pieces of my own story through writing. The more truth I heard from others, the safer I felt sharing my own, and the more natural vulnerability became.

I began to see that shift show up in real life when our boys were young, and I was spending time with other parents at their school. I was willing to talk about the parts of parenting that were hard instead of acting as though we always knew what we were doing. And then, when my husband and I each made significant career changes, moving away from corporate careers and into nonprofit work, we were honest with anyone who would ask about the uncertainty that came with those decisions. They were not simple choices tied up with a neat bow. There were questions, tradeoffs, and plenty of moments when we wondered if we were doing the right thing. And it felt amazing to be able to relax and let people know we didn’t have it all figured out, but trusted God, who did.

Earlier in my life, I might have been more tempted to wait until everything worked out before talking about it. I would have preferred to tell the story from the other side, when the decision looked wise, and all things made sense. But over time, I became more willing to let trusted people into the middle of the story, before I knew how it would end.

This posture has become a pattern in my life, and the norm for me now. I stopped feeling like I had to have all the things figured out before I could share about them. I started writing with a lot of vulnerability here. I became more honest about the things that were hard, the questions I still had, and the areas where I did not have a perfect answer.

That does not mean sharing everything with everyone. Vulnerability is not oversharing. Wisdom and discernment still matter. There are stories that belong only with people we trust. There are details that are not ours to tell. There are times when staying quiet is the wiser choice. But if and when I have the discerning opportunity to be vulnerable, I will do so, because the more honest I am about my own struggles, the more connected I feel to others. Vulnerability reminds us that none of us has it all figured out.

For a long time, I thought vulnerability meant exposing weakness. And technically, I suppose it does. But now I think of it much more simply: vulnerability is sharing the truth. The truth about what we are carrying, our struggles, the uncertainty, and where we need help. Vulnerability has taught me a few things:

First, it reminds me how much I need God. In 2 Corinthians 12, Paul writes about pleading with God to remove something difficult from his life. Instead, God tells him, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Paul later says, “For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

I believe weakness is one of the places where we have the opportunity to see God most clearly. When we admit that we do not have everything under control or wrapped up perfectly, we are also admitting something much more important: we need Him. Friends, there is freedom in that. We do not have to be the hero of our own story. We already have a Savior, and He is far better at the job than we are!

A dear friend recently reminded me that Jesus Himself gave us one of the greatest examples of vulnerability. In the Garden of Gethsemane, knowing what was ahead, Jesus did not hide His anguish. He told His closest friends, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death” (Matthew 26:38). He asked them to stay near Him, and then He went to His Father and prayed, “If it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26:39). Jesus did not pretend that what He faced was easy. He was honest about the weight of it, brought it directly to God, and still trusted Him completely. Sometimes I think we confuse faith with appearing strong, as though trusting God means we should not feel fear, sadness, uncertainty, or disappointment. Jesus shows us otherwise. We can be honest about how hard something is and still trust God in the middle of it.

Vulnerability also draws us toward one another. Galatians 6:2 tells us to “carry each other’s burdens,” but we cannot carry what we do not know exists. When we only show one another the polished parts of our lives, we may look like we have it all together, but that does not create much room for real connection. Honesty does. It allows someone else to say, “Me too,” or “I’ve been there,” or simply, “You are not alone.”

There is something freeing about being around people who are willing to tell the truth. It helps us stop comparing our real lives to someone else’s edited version and creates space for us to be honest about where we are.

And vulnerability wipes away the façade. For someone who spent years carefully managing how I was perceived, this may be one of its greatest gifts. Façades require a lot of work. Once we create an image of ourselves, we have to keep protecting it, maintaining it, and proving that it is still true. But God has never asked us to present a perfected version of ourselves to Him. Psalm 139 reminds us that He already knows us completely.

I still care what people think of me. I still like to do things well. I still want to be liked. I still feel the pull sometimes to tidy up the messy parts before letting anyone see them. But I recognize that pull now, and more often than not, I am willing to let vulnerability trump perfection. Because at this point in my life, I would rather be fully known than perfectly perceived.

Please pray with me:

Dear Lord, thank You that I do not have to hide the unfinished parts of my life from You. You already know me completely and love me still. Help me to loosen my grip on perfection, and to always care more about pleasing You than impressing others. Please give me wisdom to know when to speak and when to be still, and remind me that I do not have to carry everything on my own. When I feel weak, help me trust Your strength. When I feel exposed, remind me that I am already fully known and deeply loved by You. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.