Holding Space, Losing Space

I isolate myself when I’m hurting—not just from others, but from my own heart. It’s almost instinctive. I don’t want to be seen hurting, and I especially don’t want the person who hurt me to know I’m hurting. It’s like I’m protecting something fragile within me, even though I’m not entirely sure what that is.

I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember. I was like that with K. I was like that in high school, when it felt like the world was against me.

When I’m hurting, it’s as though my mind shifts into a hyper-rational mode. I become logical, composed, and detached—almost as if I’m standing outside myself, observing what’s happening rather than feeling it. It’s a protective mechanism, I suppose, but it comes at a cost. In my effort to shield myself from the pain, I disconnect from it—and from the vulnerability of being human.

Why do I struggle so much to let myself be vulnerable in the moment? What am I so afraid of?

Today, I went up to Shama to talk. It started well—there was validation, and for a brief moment, I thought we were getting somewhere. But then the dynamic shifted. Shama began to explain why many of his actions were shaped by my guardedness around vulnerability. He shared his thoughts, his feelings, his frustrations.

And just like that, the space was gone.

What I wanted in that moment was someone to hold space for me—to listen, to be present, to help me explore what was happening within myself. Instead, I found myself holding space for him, navigating his emotions, his interpretations of the situation. I felt the weight of his perspective pressing down on mine until I had to walk away—not out of anger, but because I needed space to process what I had tried to process with him.

I couldn’t help but ask myself: Do I do this too? When someone is vulnerable with me, do I sometimes turn it into an opportunity to share my own thoughts, my own emotions?

The truth is, I know I have the capacity to hold space. I’ve done it for many—sitting in silence with love and care, witnessing their rawness without any need to step in. But why does this change in the dynamics of intimate relationships? Why, when the person is someone close to me, do I feel the need to share myself in ways I wouldn’t otherwise?

Maybe it’s because their vulnerability strikes something personal within me—touches a part of me that still feels unseen or unresolved. Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe it’s just that I hadn’t fully realised the ripple effect of my actions in these moments until now.

Looking back, I wonder if this dynamic ties back to my childhood. Growing up, I often took on the role of mediator in my family. When Mum and Dad were in conflict, I wanted to be the one who understood them both, the one who could bridge the gap between their perspectives. It wasn’t just about keeping the peace—it was about being seen as someone who “got it,” someone who understood what each of them was going through.

Maybe that’s where it stems from—or maybe not. Either way, what I’m learning is that the desire to connect or contribute can easily shift the focus away from the person who’s being vulnerable. And in recognising this, I’m learning how to create more intentional space—not just for others, but for myself as well.

But here’s the thing: I can see how this cycle perpetuates itself. The person who takes up space when I’m vulnerable is often someone who’s hurting in their own way, someone who’s been waiting for their turn to be seen. And I can see myself in both roles—I’ve been the one who holds space, and I’ve been the one waiting for it too.

I see it now—how easy it is to misinterpret vulnerability as an invitation to step in. To shift the focus, even unintentionally. But that’s not what vulnerability needs. It doesn’t need advice or sharing. It needs curiosity. It needs patience. It needs someone to hold the moment as it is, without trying to reshape it.

When I’m vulnerable, the last thing I want is to feel responsible for someone else’s emotions. It’s not that I don’t care—I care deeply—but it’s not what serves me in that moment. What I need is space. Space to explore. Space to process. Space to feel. And when the focus shifts back to the other person, when I’m suddenly holding space for them instead of being held, it feels like I’ve lost something precious.

This frustration runs deep, especially in relationships where the balance of space feels perpetually uneven. It’s a frustration that can quietly erode the connection, making me question if I even have the right to occupy space in the relationship at all.

What I’m learning is this: Vulnerability isn’t about solutions. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up as you are, without shifting, fixing, or reshaping the moment. It’s about trusting that your role as the listener is enough, that you don’t need to offer anything more than your presence.

And here’s the thought I keep coming back to: How do we balance the spaces we hold for ourselves and the spaces we share with others? What does it mean to truly see someone while also being seen?

And perhaps the balance isn’t something we find, but something we create moment by moment. Maybe it’s in the way we choose to show up—not perfectly, but with intention. To hold space when it’s needed, to ask for space when it’s ours, and to keep learning how to meet each other somewhere in between.

Everyone is different, and we all react or experience things differently—even in what or who we find valuable or worth our energy. What I mean is, some will find value in confronting things together to work through them, while others may not see that same value and choose to walk away. Neither is inherently right or wrong; it’s simply a reflection of where we are and what feels true for us in the moment.

And maybe that’s the essence of vulnerability—not about perfect understanding or always responding the “right” way, but about creating a space where differences are honoured and truth can be shared without fear. Sometimes, it means shutting down or reacting in the moment, but then finding the courage to come back, to show up again and explore that vulnerability – with myself or together.

The answers may not always be clear, but maybe that’s the point. How do we keep showing up, even when it’s messy, even when it feels uncomfortable? What could we discover about connection—and about ourselves—if we let vulnerability become the bridge to something greater than fear: understanding?