The Things We Tell Ourselves to Avoid Feeling Vulnerable

“I don’t have time.” “It’s not that bad.” “Other people have it worse.” “I should be able to handle this on my own.” The stories we tell ourselves to avoid asking for help can be incredibly convincing – and incredibly costly.

At Televero Health, we hear these self-protective narratives every day. People come to us after months or years of talking themselves out of seeking support, armed with perfectly logical-sounding reasons why therapy wasn’t necessary, possible, or right for them. What they often discover is that these seemingly rational explanations were actually shields against a much simpler truth: vulnerability is uncomfortable, and our minds are masterful at creating stories that help us avoid it.

Maybe you recognize some of these narratives in your own thinking. Maybe you’ve told yourself you’re too busy, though you somehow find time for other priorities. Or that your problems aren’t serious enough, though they cause you real suffering. Or that you should be stronger, more self-sufficient, more capable of handling things on your own. Maybe these thoughts feel so true, so reasonable, that you don’t even question them.

These are not random thoughts. They’re protective narratives – stories your mind creates to shield you from the discomfort of vulnerability. They serve a purpose: to keep you safely within familiar territory, even if that territory includes struggle. To help you avoid the exposure that comes with admitting need. To preserve a sense of control when reaching out for support might feel like surrendering it.

These narratives are particularly powerful because they often contain a grain of truth. You likely are busy. Your struggles might not be the worst in the world. Perhaps you have handled many things successfully on your own. These partial truths make the stories compelling and difficult to question.

But beneath these surface explanations often lies a deeper layer of vulnerability – fears and beliefs that feel too exposed to acknowledge directly:

“If I admit I need help, it means I’m weak.”

“If I talk about what I’m really feeling, it might become overwhelming.”

“If I let someone see my struggles, they might reject or judge me.”

“If I acknowledge how much this hurts, I might fall apart.”

“If I invest in getting better and it doesn’t work, the disappointment would be unbearable.”

These deeper concerns aren’t irrational. They reflect real human needs for safety, acceptance, competence, and hope. They’re often based on actual experiences where vulnerability led to hurt. The problem isn’t that these concerns exist – it’s that when they remain unnamed and unexamined, they drive decisions from behind the scenes, disguised as more acceptable explanations.

We see this dynamic play out in many ways. The client who avoided therapy for years because “it costs too much,” only to realize they were actually afraid of being seen as broken or defective. The person who insisted they were “too busy” for appointments, eventually recognizing they were really protecting themselves from the vulnerability of discussing painful emotions. The individual who claimed their problems “weren’t bad enough” for therapy, later acknowledging they feared that speaking their struggles aloud would make them more real and overwhelming.

These realizations aren’t about self-blame. They’re about developing a more honest relationship with the fears that drive our choices. Because when protective narratives remain unexamined, they don’t just shield us from temporary discomfort – they can keep us from the very support and connection that might address our deeper needs.

Ironically, the vulnerability we work so hard to avoid is often the pathway to what we most want: authentic connection, genuine understanding, meaningful growth. When we hide behind our protective narratives, we maintain a sense of safety at the cost of these deeper possibilities.

So how do you begin to recognize and work with your own protective stories? It starts with curiosity rather than judgment. What if, the next time you notice yourself explaining why you can’t, shouldn’t, or don’t need to reach out for support, you asked a simple question: “Is there something beneath this explanation that feels too vulnerable to acknowledge?”

This isn’t about dismissing practical considerations. Time, money, access – these are real factors that affect our choices. But it is about getting honest about whether these practical concerns are the whole story, or whether they’re also serving as acceptable covers for deeper fears.

In therapy, we help people explore these layers with compassion rather than criticism. Not to strip away all protection – healthy boundaries around vulnerability remain important – but to create more conscious choice about when and how to let those protective shields down. To distinguish between situations where caution is warranted and those where vulnerability, despite its discomfort, might be worth the risk.

What many discover through this exploration is that the vulnerability they’ve been avoiding isn’t as dangerous as it feels. That speaking difficult truths doesn’t make them overwhelm you. That acknowledging need doesn’t equate to weakness. That being seen in your struggles can lead to connection rather than rejection.

If you recognize that you’ve been telling yourself stories to avoid feeling vulnerable, consider that those stories, while serving a protective purpose, might also be keeping you from experiences of connection, growth, and healing that require some degree of openness. Consider that the discomfort of vulnerability, while real, is often temporary, while the cost of constant self-protection can accumulate over time in isolation, limited growth, and unaddressed suffering.

This doesn’t mean you need to suddenly expose your most vulnerable self in every context. Discernment about where, when, and with whom to be vulnerable remains important. But it does mean developing a more honest relationship with the stories you tell yourself about why you can’t, shouldn’t, or don’t need support.

Because sometimes, the most courageous act isn’t handling everything alone. It’s acknowledging that some forms of strength only become possible when we’re willing to be vulnerable enough to receive the support we need.

Ready to explore the stories you tell yourself about seeking help? Start here.