When tears and fears meet grace and love
Vulnerability is not the opposite of strength, but a way to make strength visible
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Like most humans in the world, I do not like to cry in front of other people.
My life with SMA does not allow me a lot of grace to conceal my physical weaknesses and vulnerabilities. It is obvious to any random stranger that I cannot walk, and it is apparent to those who look a little closer that most of the rest of my body doesn’t work that well, either. So, naturally, I want to appear strong in any other way I can. For me, this includes minimizing the whining, complaining, and crying, and seizing courage, fortitude, and optimism.
I slap on a stoic, brave face when I have to attempt (against all odds) to get blood drawn in a medical lab, even though my insides are shriveling with anxiety. I press my lips tightly together and absently nod when I receive unexpected and unwelcome news, even as my heart sinks like a brick to the pit of my stomach. I blink hard and breathe deeply and slowly, willing my eyes to stay dry and my lip not to tremble. “Be strong!” I tell my soul, while simultaneously calculating the minutes until I can find a lonely, dark corner to open the floodgates with abandon.
Here’s one critical problem with this prideful plan of mine: I cannot independently get my hands up to touch my face. Because of my muscular weakness, I can’t raise my elbows from where they rest in my lap, so the farthest I can reach with my fingers is my chin. That means I cannot wipe my eyes, dab my cheeks, or blow my nose. So when my desperate moment of solitude comes, I turn into a soggy, snotty mess and cannot do a thing about it.
Once again, I am reminded that I need people, which causes my already-raw emotions to well up again and make me cry all the more. Finally, I call a friend to come help me clean up; it feels humiliating, but it has to be done.
The moment my friend walks in the room and sees the puddle I’m floating in, she jumps into compassionate action. She doesn’t ask why I’ve been crying or why I’ve been crying alone; she just snags the nearest tissue box (or mop), sits down next to me, and starts collecting my tears. She dries my face: my cheeks, my chin, my upper lip, and then patiently holds a tissue up for me to blow my nose.
And if that is all she did for me, it would be enough; but she does more. She gives me a hug and lets me rest my head on her shoulder. She prays with me or just sits quietly with me until the sobs have subsided. She gets me a cold compress for my swollen face and offers a cup of tea or a piece of chocolate. She often does not ask what is wrong, but she waits until I’m ready to share and then listens closely, sometimes even weeping with me.
It is in these moments that I wonder if, just maybe, needing help in the middle of my sorrowful mess is not a weakness, after all. Maybe it proves that vulnerability is not the opposite of strength, but one of the ways strength is made visible. I still don’t like how helpless it can make me feel, but I am learning that being seen and loved in my weakness is not something to be ashamed of; it is one of the most human — and beautiful and powerful — things about me.
Note: SMA News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of SMA News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to spinal muscular atrophy.
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