"Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren't always comfortable, but they're never weakness." -Brene Brown

There is this deep-rooted desire in my heart to be seen. To be seen through the photographs I choose to share, the sentences I choose to write, the words I choose to speak. And that very fact is a terrifying thing. We live in a time of perceived perfection. A time of too much Google to answer any question we may possibly have. A time where we know all the answers to do everything right the very first time we try. And yet this is turning us into exhausted beings who have to strive to keep up the facade of having it all and wanting for nothing. The facade of not ever having marriage tension or parenting woes. The facade of having enough money to buy whatever we want, whenever we want. Of fitting back into our pre-pregnancy jeans and not having 35lbs to lose (wait, just me?). We need to appear that we've got it all together and really don't struggle. Everybody has opinions about everything so we dare not show our hand. We dare not say that we're drowning in a particular hard season of life. We dare not be vulnerable enough to really be seen. To really be known. To hold our hearts in our hands and show who we really are. No filters. No facades. No hiding.

We don't want to show our true selves, and that in itself is killing our society. It is killing our relationships. It is killing our souls. 

How can we feel a connection to someone else if there is no depth? How can we know each other if we feel like we have to hide behind our beautiful smiles in our immaculate houses with our perfect children? We need vulnerability. We need the freedom to not be ok all the time. We need honesty and courage and depth. 

I look around my home and my life and I see a lot of mess. A lot of chaos. A lot of wondering if I'm messing up my kids. A lot of unknowns about the future. I see piles of laundry (seriously, THE LAUNDRY IS GOING TO KILL ME) and enough Lego strewn about the floor to permanently mangle my feet. Our fence needs redoing and I don't know if my kids will ever stop fighting and actually like each other. And how can a two year old sass me so much? 

All we really need in our courageous voice of vulnerability is for someone to say, "Me too, sister." That's it. Solidarity. Community. Authenticity. I'm all in.