Cost of looking away from vulnerability

A COUPLE of weekends ago at Sematan Beach in Lundu, I noticed this tiny, skinny kitten wandering across the sand, going up to random families as if it were asking for a little kindness.

I was not the chosen human that day, sadly, but I pulled out my phone to record the moment because it felt so gentle, almost hopeful.

Then the mood shifted.

One family it approached actually tossed sand at it to make it go away, maybe out of fear – there have been rabies cases, after all – and that sweetness turned into a heavy mix of sadness and protectiveness in my chest.

Not anger. Just that sinking feeling you get when fear overrides gentleness, and something small and helpless is treated like a threat instead of a being.

I just stood there watching the kitten keep moving, slowly padding toward the sea, stopping again at another group of strangers along the way.

Seeing it through that lens made the whole thing feel symbolic; like what it was like to reach out and be ignored, or pushed away, just for needing something.

Have you ever felt that?

Like you opened up, shared too much, let yourself get close, and then noticed that the person you trusted started to pull away, leaving you wondering if your vulnerability had become inconvenient – or worse, something to be dismissed.

Being vulnerable is kind of like leaving the door unlocked, not because you are careless, but because you are hoping someone kind will walk in.

Most of the time, that openness comes from trust, or from being exhausted in pretending you are fine.

And when someone takes advantage of that, or refuses to acknowledge it, it hits differently.

It teaches you to shrink, to stay quiet, and to tell yourself: “Maybe I should have known better than to open up.”

But being open was never the problem.

The problem was someone choosing not to meet it with care.

Giving voice to those feelings – saying out loud that you were hurt, that you cared, or that it mattered – is a way of taking yourself back.

It is you refusing to let that experience turn you into someone smaller than you actually are.

Since it is Valentine’s Day, all of this feels closer to the surface.

People talk about it like it is just about romance, but it is really not.

It quietly amplifies everything underneath: love, belonging, being chosen, and rejection too.

It can make you think about the times you felt close to someone, and the times that you felt left out or misunderstood.

Even if you swear you do not care about the day, it still kind of taps you on the shoulder.

There is a specific kind of loneliness that comes from being misunderstood.

Not the loud and obvious kind, but the subtle one that shows up after you have said how you feel and realised that it did not land the way you hoped.

You were honest. You were careful – and still, something got lost in translation.

Valentine’s Day almost invites emotional honesty: about love, longing, and letting yourself be a little vulnerable.

Lately though, conversations have felt heavier.

Silences carry more meaning, and opening up feels risky when there is a real chance of being misunderstood or brushed aside.

Still, I have learned that saying it out loud matters.

Sometimes you just have to get it out of your system.

If you did not grow up around emotionally aware people, building emotional literacy could feel like earning a whole degree in yourself.

But the work really pays off – you start to understand yourself, and others, in ways that quietly change everything.

It does not stop bad things from happening, but it helps you recognise them when they do, and gives you a way to process what you are going through instead of swallowing it whole.

And one last thing – people do not always ignore vulnerability because they do not care.

Sometimes they just do not recognise what they are seeing.

Sometimes they feel awkward, helpless, or afraid of saying the wrong thing.

Vulnerability makes people uncomfortable, and without emotional literacy, avoidance becomes the easiest response.

That is how small, needy moments get dismissed.

That is how a kitten gets sand tossed at it, instead of a gentle hand.

Emotional literacy helps with both.

It sharpens our ability to notice the quiet signs of distress: the joke that carries pain, the sudden withdrawal, and the ‘I’m fine’ that clearly is not.

And it gives enough language and confidence to stay instead of turning away.

Without emotional literacy, avoidance becomes the easiest option.

With it, people learn they do not have to fix anything; they just have to acknowledge what is there.

Emotional literacy does not make people perfect or endlessly available, but it slows down the reflex to look away.

And for someone who is reaching out, being seen, even briefly, can matter more than having everything solved.

Shame tells us we need to fix ourselves first: to be calmer, smarter, and less messy; before we deserve connection.

But that is a lie.

When someone sees us as we are, mid-process and still unsure, the weight eases.

Nothing is suddenly solved, but we are not carrying it alone anymore.

And that is the quiet relief shame cannot survive – realising that you do not have to be finished to be worthy of being seen.

* The writer is a psychology graduate who enjoys sharing about how the human mind views the world. For feedback, email to [email protected].