The Vulnerability Hangover

When pride and doubt share a room

For weeks, I’d been dreaming of yesterday. I imagined what it would feel like to see my words in The New York Times, to feel accomplished, validated—seen. And for the first few hours, I did. I watched the shares climb, the kind words roll in, and my inbox fill with people who saw themselves in my story. I felt proud. Grateful.

But as the day wore on, a different feeling began to settle in, heavy and unexpected. I told myself it was just the post-adrenaline crash, that a good night's sleep would leave me glowing.

Instead, I woke up feeling raw. The morning light pushed through the edges of the drapes, rain tapped on the roof, and all I wanted was to disappear back under the blankets. The pride was still there, but it was sharing space with something I should have seen coming: doubt.

I spent so long crafting those sentences, distilling years of fear, loss, and cautious hope into the truest thing I could offer. The moment it was published, it no longer belonged only to me. It was out in the world, and I couldn't take it back, soften its edges, or manage the discomfort it might cause.

It’s a strange kind of hangover—the emotional kind. Not from anything I drank, but from the vulnerability of being truly seen. And I want to use this moment to lean into it, not away. To dig into the why.

I have spent most of my life managing my own perception. I’m good at it.

Polished. Presentable. Together.

But yesterday, I invited thousands of strangers into the messier rooms of my life—the ones where the lights flicker, the ones I usually keep locked, the ones I’m sometimes afraid to enter myself.

And right on cue, that old voice returned. The one that tells me I’m too much, too sensitive, that I need to shrink so others can feel comfortable. That voice is always loudest on days like this, when I am choosing to stay open instead of small.

I think this is part of it. The fear that follows the brave act. Vulnerability isn’t a switch you flip; it’s a constant practice. And part of the risk is this morning-after feeling, the quiet audit that asks, Did I share too much? Did I make myself too real?

My stomach is tight, my hands are cold, and I can't help but wonder if this is the price of honesty. It feels like standing without armor. The protective gloss is gone. It's just me, sitting at my kitchen counter, reading my own words and asking if they still feel true.

Here’s the only thing that feels like medicine right now:

Telling your truth doesn’t have to feel good to be right.

If you’re reading this because you read my essay, thank you. For seeing me. For meeting me here, in the quiet, aching hangover of it all.

And if you’re carrying a truth you’re scared to share, know this: It’s okay if it feels messy. It’s okay if the day after hurts. It doesn’t mean you did it wrong.

It just means it mattered.