Choosing Courage: Why I Share My Story

Vulnerability has a power like no other. I’m reminded of that every time I sit down to share another piece of my story—like today, writing this just after posting what feels like one of my most vulnerable reels yet. Once again, I opened up about my journey through postpartum psychosis and the place of hope I’ve slowly, stubbornly, gratefully reached.

Even now, after years of speaking openly, there’s still that familiar flicker of shame before I hit “post.” A whisper that asks, Why would anyone listen to me? What do I have to offer? Brené Brown describes shame as the voice that tells us we’re not enough, and it’s astonishing how quickly that voice can appear, even when we know better. But almost without fail, it’s followed by something else—a like, a message of gratitude from a fellow survivor, a comment from someone who suddenly feels less alone. And every time, those small moments of connection remind me exactly why I share, and why I choose to share vulnerably.

During my illness, it was the stories of other postpartum mental illness survivors that carried me through the darkest hours. Women who spoke honestly about the chaos, the fear, the confusion, and the slow rebuilding. Their words were a lifeline. They didn’t know me, but they gave me hope when I had none of my own. I promised myself then that if I ever reached the other side, I would do the same for someone else.

Brené Brown often says that vulnerability is not weakness but “our most accurate measure of courage.” I think about that a lot. People tell me I’m brave for sharing my story, but the truth is, I don’t feel brave. I feel human. I feel like someone who knows what it’s like to be lost in the dark and wants to leave a light on for the next person.

Brown also talks about how vulnerability is the birthplace of connection. And that’s exactly what I’ve found. When I share honestly—messily, imperfectly, truthfully—people don’t turn away. They lean in. They recognise themselves in the cracks. They feel less alone in their thoughts and experiences. And in a world that often rewards polished surfaces and curated perfection, that kind of connection feels radical.

Imagine if we all shared like that. If we didn’t hide our struggles out of shame. If we didn’t pretend to be fine when we were falling apart. If honesty wasn’t the exception but the norm. How many people would feel less lonely? How many would feel seen?

I don’t share because I enjoy revisiting the hardest chapter of my life. I share because silence breeds shame, and shame isolates. I share because someone out there is scrolling in the dark, desperate for a sign that they’re not broken, not alone, not beyond help. I share because I remember being that person.

And I share because vulnerability—real, messy, unfiltered vulnerability—creates connection. It builds bridges between strangers. It softens the edges of our hardest days. It reminds us that being human is not about perfection but about truth.

If my story can offer even a flicker of hope to someone else, then every moment of hesitation before pressing “post” is worth it.

Here’s to more honesty. More courage. More connection. Here’s to a world where vulnerability isn’t rare—just real.