To Love Is to Be Vulnerable

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. To love is to be vulnerable.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Loving people is a gamble. You might as well walk into a casino with your heart in one hand and your car keys in the other and tell the dealer, “Hit me.” Because that’s what love does—it places your heart on the table, knowing full well that sometimes you’ll leave with a jackpot and sometimes you’ll leave with your soul in shreds.

But here’s the part no one likes to admit: not loving is worse.

We tell ourselves otherwise, don’t we? “I’ll keep it light. I’ll keep people at arm’s length. I’ll invest in hobbies, travel, pour myself into work, maybe adopt a cactus because at least it won’t die when I forget to water it.” (Spoiler alert: cacti also die, and it will feel personal when they do.)

^{Photo by 愚木混株 Yumu on Unsplash}

I’ve tried that self-protection route before. After the loss of something or someone big, after the betrayal of a friend I thought would always be there, after the ache of parenting days that felt too sharp to repeat—I swore I’d never open that door again. It’s tempting to live like Lewis warns against, wrapping your heart “round with hobbies and little luxuries.” Netflix binges, new shoes, endless scrolls, and home projects can keep you busy enough to forget the ache. But that’s not the same as living.

Because here’s the kicker: a heart that never risks doesn’t stay whole. It hardens. And once it hardens, you can’t feel the highs or the lows. You’ve essentially bubble-wrapped yourself out of the very thing that makes life worth the chaos: connection.

When my kids were younger, I remember the first time they both went off to school. I thought I’d savor the silence. I had this mental image of me lounging in peace, catching up on shows, maybe reading an entire book in one sitting. Instead, I spent each day of that week pacing like some caged animal, checking my phone every five minutes in case the school called to say someone broke an arm or hated gym class. That week, I realized something important: love and anxiety are dance partners. The price of deep attachment is the constant risk that something will hurt. But would I trade it? Not in a million years.

Pets are the same. You tell yourself you’ll never get another dog after the last one left a hole in your chest so wide you couldn’t breathe. But then one day, a fluff ball with big eyes sits in your lap, and you know you’re signing up for the same heartbreak all over again. Why? Because the years of joy and companionship are worth the inevitable goodbye. It’s irrational and reckless. And it’s exactly what makes it beautiful.

The workplace even proves this point. We can all list colleagues we kept guarded from—people who made us think, “Nope, not risking it here.” And maybe that kept things polite. But the best work I’ve ever been part of wasn’t fueled by policies or metrics. It was fueled by the moments we dared to care about each other beyond the job description. The moments someone risked asking, “Are you okay?” and actually meant it. That’s love too—the everyday, ordinary kind that requires vulnerability in boardrooms and breakrooms alike.

Marriage is basically signing a lifelong contract to hand another person the sharpest scissors they could ever hold: access to your unfiltered self. They’ll see your quirks, your worst moods, your hidden fears, the weird way you stack the dishwasher. They’ll know which words could undo you completely. And sometimes, they’ll even use them. Loving a spouse is both terrifying and extraordinary—because the same person who can crush you with one sentence is also the one who can hold you together with three words: “I’ve got you.”

Here’s the truth: every time we risk love, we sign up for possible heartbreak. But every time we refuse to risk, we sign up for certain emptiness.

Lewis says, “In that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change.” I hate that line because it’s too honest. If you protect yourself from love, you don’t keep your heart intact—you kill it. Slowly. Quietly. By withholding the very thing it was made for.

So yes, to love is to be vulnerable. To love is to risk your heart being wrung and possibly broken. But it’s also to risk laughter that knocks the air out of your lungs. To risk belonging in a world that often feels isolating. To risk joy so fierce you cry just because it exists. To risk showing up fully human, messy and magnificent all at once.

If I could rewrite Lewis’s words in my own snarky voice, I’d say this: sure, you can keep your heart locked up tight, safe from harm. But you’ll also miss out on dance parties in the kitchen, 2 a.m. phone calls that save you, and people who become your chosen family. You’ll miss the ridiculous inside jokes, the deep conversations, the kind of hugs that reset your whole nervous system. You’ll miss tacos shared with friends who know your whole story and still show up for you.

And honestly? I’d rather risk the heartbreak. Because the heartbreak is proof I was here, I loved, I gave myself fully. A broken heart heals. A hardened one doesn’t.

Life will hand you plenty of reasons to keep your guard up. You’ll have bruises to prove it. But please, don’t pack your heart away in that casket of “safe.” Give it out, even when it feels scary. Risk the vulnerability. Risk the tears. Risk the joy. Because if your heart’s going to break, let it break open—not closed.

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Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.