KAYLA JACOBS

I find vulnerability—in people who I know intimately, people who I know well and people who I don’t know at all—frankly wonderful.

Nothing gets my skin tingly and warm like being in the presence of those who share themselves. And, by share, I mean just be. I guess that’s what vulnerability represents to me.

Can you pick and choose your vulnerability? It’s a question I’ve been pondering.

On one hand, what’s wrong with choosing who, what and where you feel safe to expose and transpose yourself? It would seem prudent. On the other, should something so unashamedly raw and primal be deliberated over?

I say that because, isn’t vulnerability just love? (I’ve heard it referred to as “the absence of worry,” but I think love makes sense too.) Isn’t it just the opening of crevices, nooks and crannies that haven't seen the light of day for a long time or perhaps ever? And isn't “the art of vulnerability” just a delicious bathing of those internal landmarks with so much light that they have no choice but to be seen?

Maybe the truth lies somewhere in between: not too far left, or right, and most definitely not anywhere near the middle.

Vulnerability as love takes the edge off. It’s being the gatekeeper of your own soul. How good does that sound?