The Whole Self, Not the Highlight Reel

Being fully known is worth the risk of being fully seen.

Part 3 in The Tender Places Series

The Parts We Hide

Here's what nobody really prepares you for about love—romantic love, friendship, coaching relationships, any connection that goes deeper than surface level:

To truly love someone and be loved in return, you have to share all of yourself.

Not just the highlight reel. Not just the parts you're proud of. Not the carefully curated version you present at job interviews or first dates or networking events.

All of you.

The good, the bad, the scars you carry, the weaknesses you'd rather hide. The insecurities that wake you up at 3 AM. The fears you don't even like admitting to yourself. The messy, imperfect, still-figuring-it-out parts of who you are.

And that's absolutely terrifying.

When I stood at my son's wedding and told them this, I could see it land. That moment of recognition. Because everyone in that room knew exactly what I was talking about—that instinct to edit yourself, to present the version that seems most acceptable, most lovable, most likely to be chosen.

We all do it. We learn early that some parts of ourselves are more welcome than others. That vulnerability is risky. That showing your weaknesses might give someone ammunition to hurt you.

So we curate. We edit. We present the highlight reel and hope it's enough.

The Catch

But here's the thing I've learned through 32 years of marriage, through building a coaching practice, through every relationship where I've had to choose between safe and real:

The sanitized version of yourself can get you a pretty good relationship.

But the real, whole, unfiltered you? That's where the magic is. That's where you find the kind of love that transforms you. That sees you completely and chooses you anyway. That knows your tender places and treats them as sacred.

You can't get there by showing up edited.

You can't experience deep connection while hiding the parts of yourself you think are unlovable. You can't be truly known if you're only showing what you think people want to see.

The magic—the real intimacy, the transformative love, the relationships that change you—that only happens when you're brave enough to be fully seen.

And here's the catch: this vulnerability also gives that person the power to hurt you to your very core.

The Map to Your Tender Places

Think about what you're actually doing when you're fully vulnerable with someone.

You're saying: Here's exactly where I'm most tender. Here's the map to every place I can be wounded. Here are my insecurities about my body, my intelligence, my worthiness. Here's what I'm ashamed of. Here's what I'm afraid of. Here's where I've been hurt before and how it still affects me.

You're essentially handing someone a detailed guide to your soft spots. The places where a careless word can cut deep. The fears that, if thrown in your face, would devastate you. The dreams that, if dismissed, would break something in you.

That's not weakness. That's courage.

It takes incredible bravery to say, "This is all of me—the parts I'm proud of and the parts I'm still working on. The strengths I've built and the wounds I'm still healing. The confident version and the version that sometimes wonders if I'm enough."

Why We Do It Anyway

So why risk it?

Because the alternative is worse.

The alternative is going through life partially known. Building relationships on the foundation of who you're pretending to be. Being loved for a version of yourself that isn't complete. Wondering if people would still choose you if they really knew.

I spent years doing that. Being "just a mom"—which was real, but not all of me. Being the military spouse who adapted seamlessly—which I did, but at a cost I wasn't admitting. Being the people-pleaser who made everyone else comfortable—while ignoring my own needs and dreams.

Those identities weren't false. They just weren't whole.

And the relationships I built from that incomplete place? They were good. They were functional. But they weren't transformative. Because how can someone truly love you when they don't truly know you?

When Dave and I first got married, I showed him the highlight reel. The capable version. The one who could handle anything. The one who didn't need much and didn't complain.

And he loved that version. But somewhere around move number eight or ten or twelve, when I finally broke down and admitted how hard it was, how lonely I felt, how much I was struggling—that's when our marriage deepened.

Not because vulnerability is attractive. But because it's real. And you can't build something lasting on anything less than real.

What Gets Shared

So what does it actually look like to share all of yourself?

It's admitting when you're scared, even when you're supposed to be the strong one.

It's saying "I need help" instead of pretending you have it all figured out.

It's sharing the dream you're afraid to speak out loud because what if it's ridiculous?

It's confessing the insecurity you've carried since childhood—the one that still whispers you're not smart enough, thin enough, talented enough, worth choosing.

It's showing your work-in-progress self, not just the finished product.

It's letting someone see you cry. Or rage. Or feel lost. Or doubt yourself. Or be petty or jealous or unreasonable or whatever emotion you've been taught isn't acceptable.

It's saying "This is what I'm ashamed of" and trusting that sharing it won't make you unlovable.

It's bringing your whole self to the table—messy kitchen and all.

The Business of Being Real

This applies beyond romantic relationships.

In my coaching work, I have to bring my whole self. Not just the polished version who has it all figured out. But the version who's still learning, still growing, still navigating transitions I don't fully understand yet.

When I'm working with clients, they don't need my highlight reel. They need to see that I'm human too. That I've struggled with the same questions they're asking. That I'm still figuring things out while also having earned some wisdom along the way.

That's what makes the work authentic. That's what creates trust.

Same with building a business. I could present Soul Force Strategies as this perfectly polished brand with all the answers. Or I can show you the truth: I'm building this while my husband retires, while we're in transition, while I'm simultaneously releasing old identities and discovering new ones.

The polished version might look more professional. But the real version? That's what connects. That's what lets people see themselves in my story and believe that transformation is possible for them too.

What It Requires From Others

Here's the other side of this: when someone shares their whole self with you, you're being given something sacred.

You're being trusted with their tender places. With the insecurities they don't share lightly. With the fears and dreams and wounds and hopes they usually keep protected.

That requires something from you too.

It requires that you handle what you're given gently. That you don't use someone's vulnerability as ammunition later. That you don't dismiss their fears or minimize their struggles or make them regret opening up.

It requires that you see their courage in being vulnerable and meet it with your own honesty rather than judgment.

This is where relationships either deepen or break. When someone shows you their whole self, you get to choose: do I treat this as the gift it is, or do I weaponize it?

Living It Now

I'm living this tension right now in ways that feel raw.

I'm building a business where I have to be visible. Where I have to share my story, my struggles, my work-in-progress self. Where pretending to have it all figured out would be easier but ultimately hollow.

I'm navigating a major life transition—Dave's retirement, uncertain next steps, releasing identities I've held for decades—and I could hide all that messiness. Present only the confident version. Wait until I have answers before I say anything.

But that wouldn't be real. And real is the only foundation worth building on.

So I'm showing you the whole thing. The version of me who's excited and scared. Confident in some areas, totally uncertain in others. Growing and grieving simultaneously. Becoming someone new while honoring who I've been.

That's vulnerability. Not oversharing or emotional dumping. But being honest about where I am, what I'm learning, what I don't know yet.

And trusting that being fully known is worth the risk of being fully seen.

The Both/And

This is another both/and that makes love possible:

You can be strong AND vulnerable. You can be capable AND need help. You can have wisdom AND still be figuring things out. You can be confident in who you are AND honest about your insecurities.

Vulnerability isn't the opposite of strength. It's the foundation of it.

The bravest thing you can do is stand in front of someone—a partner, a friend, a coach, a community—and say: "This is all of me. Not just the parts I'm proud of. All of it. And I'm trusting you to hold that gently."

The sanitized version will get you connection. The whole version will get you transformation.

Choose whole. Every time. Even when it's scary. Especially when it's scary.

Because that's where the magic lives.

Next in the series: The Map to Your Tender Places—On trust as sacred responsibility

What parts of yourself have you been editing? Where have you chosen the real version over the safe one? I'd love to hear your experience.