I’ve always believed in being emotionally open. Not just transparent in the obvious, day-to-day ways — but truly open: vulnerable, exposed, honest about what I feel and what I want, even if doing so makes it easier to hurt me. That belief has shaped how I love. And recently, it got me hurt in a way I didn’t see coming.
For several months, I was talking to someone — someone from abroad. It started simply, like all our connections do. Daily messages turning into voice calls, growing warmth, little signs of excitement on both sides. She was thoughtful, curious, full of dreams, and expressed genuine admiration for me and a deep desire to be nearer to me, like she could build a life within the space I was offering her.
I believed her.
And so, I made space.
I rearranged my life for her arrival — literally and metaphorically. I took time off work and prepared to rearrange my work and I made room in my home. I slowed down parts of my world to welcome someone else into it. I listened to her fears, her past wounds, her hopes. And I opened up about mine. We weren’t just playing house — we were mapping out a future.
Then she vanished. No warning. Just silence.
At first, I was worried. I thought something might’ve happened. In truth this wasn’t even the first time this had happened with her, so perhaps I should have expected it. But what followed wasn’t confusion. It was betrayal. She hadn’t just ghosted. She’d quietly changed the date on the ticket I bought her — the one meant to bring her here — presumably an effort to hide them from me. Eventually, she responded to my attempts at contacting her — but the message that came was cold, aggressive, spiteful and deliberately hurtful. She threw out accusations that were not just false, but absurd. Yet they were delivered in a way that made it clear they weren’t meant to be believed — they were meant to sting. She knew what would hurt. And she used it.
That message hit harder than the silence. It wasn’t just that she disappeared — it was how quickly she turned, how completely the warmth vanished, and how calculated the reversal felt. One moment we were building something; the next, I was being cast as the villain in a story I didn’t recognize. It left me disoriented — like everything that had been up was suddenly down.
The days that followed were heavy. I’m not someone who lets emotions control my decisions, but I felt gutted. I kept asking myself whether it was foolish to have let someone in that far — to have exposed so much of myself.
But after sitting with it, I realized something: being hurt by vulnerability doesn’t make vulnerability a mistake.
The truth is, we live in a time when everyone is trying to "play it cool." Keep it casual. Hide their intentions. Bury their feelings under ironic detachment and Instagram quotes. And yet, we’re all quietly craving real connection — the kind that requires risk. The kind that demands you show up with your whole self and say, “This is me. I want something that matters.”
Emotional maturity, for me, means being able to hold complexity. To listen to both the loud and the quiet parts of yourself. To lead with integrity, even when it’s inconvenient. To know when to protect your boundaries, and when to invite someone into your inner world — without guarantees.
I don’t think she was evil. I think she was scared. I think she wanted something real, but maybe not as much as she thought. Maybe it was easier to break things than to keep showing up. I can’t know. And I won’t define her entirely by how she left.
But I will define myself by how I respond.
I didn’t become bitter. I didn’t retaliate. I didn’t shut down emotionally. I grieved. I processed. I talked to people I trust. And I kept doing the hard work of staying open. Not because I’m naïve — but because I know who I am.
I still want love. Real love. I still believe in creating a home not just filled with comfort, but with purpose. I want a partner who feels cherished and protected, who trusts me to lead and guide, and who gives herself back to me with honesty and joy. I want to raise a family built on trust, not games. And that means I must keep leading with my heart, even when it hurts.
So no, I won’t stop opening up.
Yes, it comes with risk. Yes, there are people who will misuse your openness. But that’s not a reason to close the door. It’s a reason to refine your instincts — to get better at recognizing who’s worth that risk. To know your standards, and to uphold them. To build your own strength so that when someone stumbles into your life and says, “I want to be here,” you can say, “Then come — but be real.”
Vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s leadership. It’s choosing love over fear. And I’ll always choose that.
Even if it breaks my heart again.