A Study in Curated Vulnerability

Selfies and odd commentary included.

I’ve been thinking about this post since my birthday.

I was a quiet, painfully shy child who would stare into space to escape the monotony of daily life. When I finally included mere mortals into my pensive observations, I started to pick up on blatant mannerisms, ascertain patterns, and pinpoint what made people feel most insecure. (Many were the perceptions of others and to be seen as a fraud of sorts.) People are often surprised to find out I'm an enneagram 8 when they read my writing since I allow very raw pieces of myself out for the world, but it’s truly not even the tip of the iceberg.

I still dole out my own vulnerability in petit-four servings.

Because once the words are out there, it gets filtered through your interpretation.

I don’t like that because I have control issues.

Or as Anna Nalick sings from her 2005 hit “Breathe”:

2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song

If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me

Threatening the life it belongs to

And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd

'Cause these words are my diary screaming out loud

And I know that you'll use them however you want to

In other words, I have to get the narrative out before it kills me, but it will be up for scrutiny. Sure, I could just write villainous and ugly words in my journal (which I do), but this stupid need to know I’m not alone is rather strong, a heavy platter I bring to a potluck. If you are a memoirist or personal essayist, you understand.

And because controlling the narrative and being vulnerable on my terms is so vital to me, I wanted to share pictures from the past year that offer calculated, in-depth slivers of the “why” behind what I do because a story and a photo are never just that—at least for me.

Case #1: I will kill you with my eyes/I see everything/I see what I want to see/I can’t fake enthusiasm

Hopefully, you can click on those to make them bigger. Substack, your gallery feature sucks. Readers, this isn't OF, so just be thankful.

When I was working at Rack Room Shoes (after surviving a stint at KB Toys), I met my future husband. (A heart-warming story for another day.) I also had a much older manager, like white-haired and grandfather-ish. One day in the store, he asked, “Has anyone told you that you have sexy eyes?” Sixteen-year-old me just zoned out. Well, that was weird, but apparently, a fact that has been confirmed by many.

If I’m interested, I stare. I bat my eyes. When our eyes meet, I own you.

Again, I was a shy, painfully quiet child.

But I learned to speak volumes with my eyes.

Case #2: No smiling because I am serious business.

Looking pissed makes me look strong.

The other day I had a friend comment about my lack of smile in my sexy photos. Yes, he liked seeing the photos, but he wondered why I didn’t smile more.

I’m actually a goofball in real life. Humor is a constant; just ask my coworkers, close friends, and family. For my job, my performance is regularly assessed, and one participant recently asked if the survey would include a question rating my dorkiness level.

“Unfortunately, no,” I responded.

Maybe it’s because I wear Invisalign or I don’t like how my nose scrunches up and looks bigger when I smile, but I really do love to laugh and don’t hold back in that area. I promise.

I do wear neon elastics in my mouth because I’m a cool mom.

Yes, I have smile-ish selfies, but I like to gatekeep myself. I am not a game. I am an experience.

Know what you signed up for.

Case #3: I’m so brave for not wearing makeup and not brushing my hair. Clap for me. No… really, clap for me.

Ugly duck syndrome is a real thing. Google it.

When I moved from Miami to Savannah, Georgia, during the summer of 1995 before seventh grade, I asked my mom if I could get my hair chopped like Kelly Taylor on 90210 when she had her pixie haircut. My mom, a beauty school drop-out, should have warned me that no middle school girl can maintain a style like that. (I don’t know about nowadays. I would let an eighth grader do my makeup in a heartbeat.)

Well I got my Kelly pixie cut and then cried in the salon lady’s chair. I shellacked my hair to my head and figured middle school was ruined anyway with my weird Cuban last name (let’s just say I became “Desiree Macarena,” not my choosing… but there was worse) and acne-prone skin.

Seeing myself in the mirror gave me anxiety. It got so bad I would go out of my way to avoid my reflection. I was always trying a new harsh treatment on my face and messed up my mental health while I was on Accutane the year before I got married. (No joke, remember hearing about people committing suicide or experiencing depression while on it?)

I patiently waited for my hair to grow out, desperately wanting long hair. Yes, I got it cut into another pixie cut and into bobs through my early adult years, but I don’t ever see myself cutting it short again. In fact, I plan on continuing to grow it out.

I have clear skin now and gorgeous, long dark locks. (I hated how dark my hair was while growing up. My classmates asked me if it was really that color because no one would obviously want that color or choose it, right? Where was Katy Perry when I needed her?)

And yes, I do have a bit of “ugly duck syndrome.” I still see myself as that unattractive, weird girl who will only have one boyfriend she ended up marrying (thankfully). I cringe when I see photos from my teenage years because I remember how much I wished I looked different.

I suppose I “swaned-out” (or “swanned-out”?), but every now and then, I think of a little Gollum/Smeagol-like creature breaking my jaw, pulling my mouth unnaturally open, and looking down into my throat, whispering “I know you’re still in there, precious.”

Kind of funny, but something for my therapist.

I could go on in case numbers and examples and quirky stories, but one thing that has become the most apparent is that it feels good to break apart—relief!—let others take a bite and I fall out like goo. Only in little bits. I know how to gather myself up and pick up my crumbs and disappear as if I never existed. Glue myself back together and hide back behind the curtain.

I don’t inhale and exhale. I granulate and reaccumulate. I become morsels for easier consumption, but I’m careful with who can indulge.