Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / The Courage to Wear Your Heart on Your Sleeve Despite the Cold Wind | Still Standing
Transcript
- You are not cold because you have no heart; you are cold because you left it exposed to a world that hasn’t learned how to hold it gently yet. Take a breath with me, right there in the quiet of your own living room, and let’s talk about the terrifying, beautiful act of being seen. I want you to think back to a time when you felt truly vulnerable. Not the polite vulnerability of sharing a minor embarrassment at a dinner party, but the raw, shaking kind where your chest feels hollowed out and you’re waiting for someone to notice the crack in your armor. For years, I wore my armor like it was made of titanium. It was heavy, yes, but it kept me safe. In those high-pressure corporate rooms I used to inhabit, visibility was dangerous. If you showed too much feeling, you were labeled 'difficult.' If you cried, you were 'unprofessional.' So we built walls. We learned to smile with our mouths while our eyes stayed guarded. We became experts at emotional camouflage. But here is the thing about wearing armor all day: it doesn’t just keep the bad stuff out. It keeps the good stuff from getting in. It keeps connection from reaching you. And eventually, it starts to weigh you down so much that you forget what it feels like to move freely. I remember standing in my kitchen after one of my biggest burnouts, staring at a pile of unwashed dishes, and realizing I didn’t even know who I was without the shield. I had forgotten how to be soft. I had forgotten that being open isn’t weakness; it’s actually the bravest thing you can do. We live in a culture that praises resilience as if it means never breaking. We celebrate the woman who bounces back instantly, who smiles through the grief, who handles the crisis with icy calm. But that’s not resilience. That’s suppression. Real resilience is messy. It’s crying in the car park before walking into the office meeting. It’s telling your partner, 'I’m scared,' instead of pretending you have it all figured out. It’s admitting that you need help, even when your pride is screaming at you to handle it alone. When we wear our hearts on our sleeves, we are essentially saying, 'This is what matters to me. This is what hurts. This is what brings me joy.' And in a world that often feels like a cold wind blowing through our ribs, that exposure can feel freezing. You worry that if you show your true self, people will see the imperfections and turn away. You worry that your sensitivity is a liability. But let me tell you what I’ve learned after years of therapy and rebuilding my life from the ground up: your sensitivity is not a flaw. It is your antenna. It allows you to receive love, art, and truth that others might miss entirely. The cold wind doesn’t bother those who are wrapped in layers of indifference, but they also never feel the warmth of the sun. I want to ask you a question that might feel uncomfortable. What did it cost you to hide your heart? Think about the relationships that faded because you were too proud to reach out first. Think about the opportunities you passed up because you were afraid of looking foolish. Think about the nights you spent lying awake, replaying conversations in your head, wondering if you said too much or too little. Every time you chose safety over authenticity, you paid a price. You paid with your energy, your peace, and your sense of self. I remember a specific moment last winter. I was hiking up a trail near my new home, the kind of hike where the air bites at your cheeks and your lungs burn. I met another hiker halfway up, and we started talking. Not the small talk of 'nice weather' or 'how far are you going,' but the real stuff. She told me she was grieving a loss she hadn’t spoken about publicly. I told her I was struggling with loneliness despite being surrounded by people. In that freezing air, wrapped in our jackets, we shared something profound. We didn’t fix each other’s problems. We just witnessed each other’s pain. And in that witnessing, the cold seemed to disappear. We warmed each other up. That is the power of showing up as you are. Now, I know what you’re thinking. 'Marissa, it sounds great to just wear your heart on your sleeve, but what if I get hurt? What if I share and they reject me?' And that is a valid fear. Vulnerability is not about dumping your trauma on every person you meet. It’s not about oversharing or using people as therapists. True vulnerability is intentional. It is choosing who gets access to your inner world. It is recognizing that not everyone deserves your naked soul, and that is okay. Think of it like a garden. You don’t leave the gate open for strangers to wander in and trample your flowers. You build a fence. You decide who gets to come inside. When you wear your heart on your sleeve, you are essentially inviting the right people into your garden. You are signaling to them that you trust them with your truth. And when you find those people—the ones who listen with their whole bodies, who don’t try to fix you but just sit with you in the dark—that connection becomes sacred. It becomes the antidote to isolation. It reminds you that you are not alone in this human experience. You are part of a larger tapestry of souls who are also trying to stay warm. So how do we start? How do we learn to wear our hearts on our sleeves again when we’ve spent decades zipping them up tight? We start small. We start with tiny acts of radical openness. Maybe it’s telling a friend, 'I’m having a hard day,' instead of saying 'I’m fine.' Maybe it’s sharing a piece of art that moved you, even though you’re embarrassed by your taste. Maybe it’s admitting to your boss that you’re overwhelmed, not as a complaint, but as a request for support. These small gestures might feel insignificant, but they are revolutionary. They disrupt the pattern of hiding. They create space for genuine connection. And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is simply to say, 'I care about this.' Whether it’s a cause, a person, or a project, declaring your care makes you visible. It makes you real. I’ve found that when I allow myself to care openly, I attract people who care deeply too. We become magnets for each other. The cold wind still blows, sure. But now, I’m not shivering alone. I’m standing next to others who are also brave enough to stand in the breeze, hearts exposed, trusting that the warmth of community will keep us alive. Let’s sit in that for a second. Feel the weight of that choice. To be seen is to be known. And to be known is to be loved, if we let it. There is a freedom in dropping the mask that I haven’t experienced since I was a child. No more performing. No more curating. Just being. Just breathing. Just loving loudly and failing gracefully and trying again. It’s not always easy. Some days, the wind is particularly harsh, and I want to retreat back into my shell. But then I remember the warmth of that hiker on the trail. I remember the look in my friend’s eyes when I finally admitted I was lost. I remember the relief of letting go. You deserve that relief. You deserve to be held, not by armor, but by hands that understand the shape of your heart. So today, I invite you to take one small step toward the light. One small risk. One honest word. See what happens. See who stays. See who grows closer. Because the world needs your heart, not hidden away in the dark, but beating loudly, proudly, and vulnerably in the cold wind. It needs your story. It needs your truth. It needs you, exactly as you are. Thank you for listening, for being here, and for having the courage to keep showing up. I’ll be right here next week, ready to walk alongside you again. Until then, be gentle with yourself. Take care. Bye for now.