The Guest
I met her at a Christmas party this week, sitting quietly among the seasonal chatter. Tall and elegant in clothes from another era, she spoke about her work, her influence, and her many connections. The words came easily, practiced, filling the space with accomplishment.
But underneath it, something else seeps out.
That’s what the moment taught me—not about her specifically, but about all of us. How we construct these careful presentations, these compartments where we store our longing, our unfulfillment, our desire for something more. We believe we’re containing it, managing it, keeping it properly hidden. And then it seeps out anyway.
Because vulnerability isn’t something we can permanently bottle up; it finds its way through the cracks. It shows itself in the pause between sentences, in the way our eyes drift when we talk about success, in the depth of a look that’s almost a stare, and in the reaching for words that never quite capture what we’re actually feeling.
She made a statement with her elegant bearing, her bygone fashion, her stories of influence. But the vulnerability came anyway, uninvited yet somehow essential. Like a guest we didn’t mean to welcome but who belonged at the table nonetheless.
I’ve spent this week thinking about these compartments; how we divide ourselves into acceptable pieces—the competent professional, the accomplished friend, the person who has it together. We present these pieces carefully, keeping the messier parts tucked away. The desire for another person, another life, another experience, another meaning.
But here’s what I see: when we live compartmentalized, something vital goes missing. We become a collection of presentations rather than a whole person. The vulnerability that seeps out isn’t a failure of our containers—it’s our wholeness trying to break through.
What if vulnerability isn’t the problem but the path? Not something to manage or hide, but something essential to feeling fully human? Yes, it might hurt us at times. Yes, it exposes us in ways that feel uncomfortable. But without it, we’re just elegant performances, telling stories of influence while the real story—the one about longing and searching and not having arrived—goes unspoken.
The party continued around us that evening. Christmas music played. People moved from conversation to conversation, everyone presenting, everyone containing. And I sat there recognizing something I’ve known but keep forgetting we’re all carrying desires that will not abate. We must continue seeking, reaching, and being vulnerable.
The question isn’t whether vulnerability will emerge. It will. It must. The question is whether we’ll make room for it, acknowledge it, let it be part of our wholeness rather than something to resist and store for another day.
Maybe that’s the real gift of the season—not the wrapped packages or the seasonal gatherings, but the moments when our careful containers crack open and something truer seeps out, when we stop long enough to be present with our unfulfillment, our reaching, our very human desire for more.
Vulnerability keeps showing up like an uninvited guest.
Perhaps it’s time to set a place at the table.
The guest
She sits quietly,
Telling stores of her vast influence,
Without boastful words,
Unaware of her pain exposed,
In her unfulfillment.
Tall, elegant and beautifully dressed,
She is slightly out of fashion,
With clothes from a bygone era,
Yet making her statement.
Here she moves amongst the guests,
At the Christmas party, yet underneath,
With something else,
Yet underneath it seeps out.
This desire for another,
Another person, life, experience, meaning;
That will not abate.
She must continue …
