The Paradox of Vulnerability

I read a quote somewhere a few days back, that doing good for other people is the most selfish act of all; and I wondered how that sentence even remotely made sense. How can being generous and kind possibly be acts of selfishness? Does that statement not go against the very postulates that our parents and our families have instilled upon us since we were but toddlers? And yet, if one ponders about the sentence for some time, they stumble upon its bitter truth- people do good so that good happens to them in return, so that some kind of karmic force in this world tilts the balance of goodwill in their favor after seeing them being kind to other people. That is not to say that inherently good people do not exist at all; out of more than 8 billion people on this little blue rock, there must be a foundationally 'good' person somewhere, at least according to the law of averages; but there is an equally small chance that the person I'm talking about is known to me or even you, dear reader. He, or she, is probably sipping a mug of warm coffee in a café in Morocco right now. Cozy.

You might be wondering, "Did I click on the wrong article? How does this have any correlation with the title of the post?"

Well, well, let me get to my point; it being, sometimes, our actions and ways of existing have very unexpected reasons behind them, and sometimes they have very unforeseen consequences as well. Just like we do good to others so that good happens to ourselves, (a truly sinister reason to be kind, but would the beggar you gave the remaining ₹10 of your auto fare home really care about your deepest intentions?) when we truly project that inner version of ourselves to the people surrounding us, instead of drawing them closer, just as the books and movies and popular culture say it should do, it pushes them farther and farther away.

As your friendship with someone deepens, you begin to open up. You start sharing things that aren't always pretty. You talk about the parts of you that you've kept hidden away, the scars that haven't fully healed. You think your friend will understand, that the bond will only grow stronger. But instead of drawing them in, you sense a shift- an unspoken hesitation, a little more distance between you. They seem less eager to engage with you the way they used to. It's like the more you reveal, the further they step back.

It's the same with friendships as it is with romantic relationships. The more vulnerable you are, the more you risk being seen as too much- too intense, too real. And, just like in the initial stages of getting to know someone, the illusion of the "perfect friend" is shattered once you let them see the imperfections. It's not that they don't care- it's just that, sometimes, people are more comfortable with the mystery, with the version of you that fits neatly into their expectations, their ideal of who you should be.

When you first meet someone, and you know next to nothing about them, except for their name, how they look, and vague deductions made about them based on their appearance, there is a certain appeal to them. There is a mystery to solve, a chase to begin, a thousand questions to answer. What's their favourite book? Do they even read? If not, why? Do they watch sports? Football? Damn, yes? Either Barcelona or Madrid, right? No? Atletico! Damn, that's surprising.

And it goes on, and on, and on, until all the questions you have are answered, and vice versa; both of you know absolutely everything about each other. You know their parents' favourite colour of bedsheets, and they know your favourite type of football which was played with in only one edition of the World Cup and subsequently banned (the Jabulani, for the football enthusiasts here). Neither one of you has any more doubts about each other, and slowly, you begin to reveal your emotional side to them. The side which got hurt as a kid, the side which scars and heals repeatedly every day, in a never-ending cycle of viciousness. You think they will take care of that small slit you have uncovered specially for them; but rather than pulling them closer to you emotionally, bonding over the mistakes you've made and navigating them hand in hand, it shatters the illusion of mystery in them, whatever pieces of it were still intact. There is absolutely nothing to uncover about you anymore. To them, you are now terribly human; a person with emotions, a person who gets hurt, a person who can shed tears.

When the illusion of mystery is broken, the distance grows exponentially, and that is what I find the most ironic. When you open up to someone, are they not supposed to cherish the fact that you have trusted them enough to talk to them about who you truly are? Instead, they push you away, till another person arrives who they know nothing about, in whom the illusion is not broken yet. They don't know their favourite book, whether they watch sports, what colour of bedsheets their parents prefer. It is instantly more appealing; the questions present themselves again, hungry for answers.

After a point, one gets tired of the chase. I have. As you mature, you realise that having no questions to ask the other person is not a bad thing; in fact, the very opposite. Cherish the fact that you have nothing to hide. But that happens rarely.

There's a quiet kind of loneliness that comes not from being alone, but from being seen and then avoided. You tell yourself that honesty is the foundation of connection, that people want the truth, the raw and unfiltered version of you. And yet, when you offer it -when you peel back the layers and say, this is who I am- you notice the shift. The hesitation in their voice, the unread messages, the polite but distant nods. Maybe it's the weight of it. Maybe people aren't as drawn to honesty as they claim. Or maybe they just preferred the version of you that smiled more, that didn't ask too many questions, that didn't make them feel too much.

The fastest way to lose people is to show them who you really are.