How Vulnerable is Too Vulnerable?
On storytelling, cancel culture, and the art of Taylor Swifting
Where do we draw the line between honest vulnerability and public revenge?
I read this saying that goes: Love a writer, and you’ll live forever.
It sounded romantic — the idea of being immortalized in someone’s words, preserved in metaphor and memory.
But that romantic saying has a dark flipside: Hurt a writer, and you might become the villain in their story.
This is the double-edged sword of vulnerability in writing — whether you’re a writer or anyone who posts their thoughts online.
When we bleed onto the page, we’re rarely bleeding alone. Our stories involve others: ex-lovers, difficult parents, toxic bosses, former friends. And in sharing our truth, we’re often sharing pieces of theirs.
So how do we distinguish vulnerability from simply ‘bleeding in public’?
Intention and perspective will tell us.
Honest vulnerability serves something greater than our own catharsis. It’s not just about emptying our emotional junk drawer for all to see; it’s about choosing which parts of our experience might help others make sense of their own.
This is what we forget in our culture of quick takes and cancel campaigns.
I had a traumatic experience at work, and I often considered writing my way through it. It had everything: raw emotion, vivid details, and a clearly defined villain. If not for a personal essay, at least for a scathing Glassdoor review. (Half-kidding.)
But something stopped me from doing it. I didn’t want a writing breakthrough or a viral post tainted with bitterness. Also, maybe it was remembering how this person opened up to me about their family history or made me feel seen and appreciated when times were good.
When I eventually wrote about that coworker months later, the distance allowed me to see us both more completely.
Hannah Brencher called it the art of Taylor Swifting. The delicate balance of immortalizing people through your words — while giving yourself enough distance to write from wisdom rather than wounds.
This is what we forget in our culture of quick takes and cancel campaigns: people are more than just their worst moments or their most questionable choices.
When we post about others online, we’re contributing to narratives that can have serious consequences.
If you’re a Filipino who was online in 2012, you probably remember the “Amalayer” girl. It’s my earliest memory of cancel culture before we had a name for it. A young woman whose moment of frustration with a security guard was captured on video, uploaded without context, and turned into a meme on entitlement. Years of her life reduced to seconds of footage.
Our eagerness to cast stones came at the expense of empathy.
When we post about others online, whether strangers-gone-viral or people in our personal lives, we’re contributing to narratives that can have serious consequences.
Time is the best editor for vulnerable writing.
In viral posts as in any form of writing, anyone can publish their unfiltered thoughts to an audience of thousands. When we write about others — especially when casting them as antagonists in our stories — we’re telling their stories too, often without their input or consent.
This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t write truthfully about our experiences. Quite the opposite.
The most powerful writing acknowledges nuance and complexity: That the person who hurt you might also be hurting. That the relationship that ended badly might have begun beautifully. That the parent who failed you might have also loved you as best they could with the tools they had.
But it takes time to get to that vantage point. Time is the best editor for vulnerable writing.
The first draft, written in the heat of the moment, is for you alone. It’s where you can be petty and one-sided and absolutely sure you’re in the right.
But the version that eventually reaches readers’ eyes? That one comes after reflection, after you’ve asked yourself the hard questions: What was my role in this? What might their perspective be? What larger truth does this story serve?
Ask yourself: “Is this vulnerability generous?”
Brené Brown distinguishes between vulnerability and oversharing: True vulnerability comes from a place of connection. Oversharing often comes from unprocessed pain. One builds bridges, while the other can burn them.
Maybe the question isn’t “How vulnerable is too vulnerable?” but rather “Is this vulnerability generous?”
Does it acknowledge the complexity of relationships? Does it make space for the humanity of everyone involved?
The most powerful writing doesn’t just expose wounds. It explores how wounds heal, or don’t heal, or heal differently than expected. It doesn’t just identify one-dimensional villains. It reflects on the circumstances that shaped that person, for better or worse.
So by all means, write it all: the heartbreaks, the betrayals, the moments when others have wronged you.
But give yourself time to process before posting. Consider whether it’s worth posting about at all. Because when you immortalize someone through your words, you’re not just telling your story.
You’re shaping how the world might remember them long after your pain has faded.
That responsibility requires more than vulnerability. It requires grace.
