The Beauty Is in the Vulnerability

There is something almost magical about discovering a new artist.

Lately, for me, it has been Sienna Spiro. I especially love We’re Not in Love and Time, You & Me.

Perhaps I’m late to the party. Maybe everyone else has already been listening to her while I’ve been over here just now discovering that voice. But isn’t that one of the joys of music? Somehow, it has a way of finding us exactly when we’re ready for it.

It was less than three years ago, for example, that I truly discovered Taylor Swift. Of course, I had heard some of her music, but until then, when I thought of Taylor Swift, I thought mostly of country music and the catchy, teeny-bop fun of Shake It Off.

Apparently, I had saved the rest for later—the deep, moving music that can somehow make you feel stronger simply because you listened to it.

And oh, did I become a Swiftie at exactly the right time for me.

Her music helped carry me through a broken heart I once thought I might never fully recover from. And yet I did. Perhaps there will always be pieces of that love I miss, and I’ve learned that’s okay too. Missing something beautiful does not mean we are meant to return to it. Sometimes it simply means it mattered.

I made it through. And I am stronger and better because I loved, because I hurt, because I healed—and perhaps because I had some really good music playing in the background while I did it.

Music has been doing that for me for as long as I can remember.

In my 30s, I discovered Norah Jones, with her vulnerable lyrics and that sultry voice that somehow manages to be both sexy and calming. I played Cold Cold Heart on repeat more times than I could possibly count.

Not long after that, I discovered Joss Stone, whom I Super Duper Love. 😉

And in my 40s, I remember keeping Sister Hazel’s This Kind of Love on repeat—not because I had found that kind of love, but because the song allowed me to dream about it.

Maybe that is one of music’s greatest gifts.

It can take us back to places we have been and transport us to places we have never been but desperately want to go. It can make us happy. It can make us cry. It can return us to a moment we thought we had forgotten and awaken emotions we thought we had long ago forgotten how to feel.

And now, listening to Sienna Spiro, I’ve realized that what captivates me isn’t simply a beautiful voice.

It isn’t even the melody.

It’s the vulnerability.

I’ve always listened closely to lyrics. I want to know what the songwriter was trying to say. I want to understand what they were feeling when they wrote those words because somehow, if they tell the truth well enough, I begin to feel it too.

And that has made me think about something much bigger than music.

As human beings, one of the most extraordinary things about us is our ability to feel.

Joy.

Wonder.

Grief.

Longing.

Disappointment.

Heartbreak.

Hope.

Our emotions are not flaws in our design.

They are part of what makes us beautifully human.

And yet, somewhere along the way, so many of us learned that certain emotions should be hidden.

We learned to smile when we wanted to cry. To say, “I’m fine,” when we weren’t. To act indifferent when we missed someone deeply. To swallow disappointment so we wouldn’t seem ungrateful. To hide anger because it felt impolite. To pretend loss didn’t hurt because somehow we began to believe that strength meant appearing unaffected.

But art doesn’t do that.

The best songs don’t apologize for longing.

The best books don’t hide heartbreak.

The best films don’t skip over grief.

The best poetry doesn’t edit out vulnerability.

Instead, great art shines a light directly into those emotions.

And something remarkable happens.

The listener doesn’t simply hear the song.

The reader doesn’t simply read the page.

The audience doesn’t simply watch the story.

We remember.

We remember the person we loved.

The dream that didn’t happen.

The betrayal that changed us.

The goodbye we never wanted to say.

The love we still occasionally miss, even though we know we were right to let it go.

Or perhaps we remember something entirely different: what it feels like to hope again after believing for a while that we never would.

An artist lends us their courage for a few minutes, and in doing so quietly gives us permission to experience our own emotions without embarrassment or apology.

Maybe that’s why certain songs stay with us for decades.

Not because they tell us something we didn’t already know.

Because they remind us that we aren’t the only ones who have ever felt it.

I’ve begun to wonder if perhaps we have misunderstood emotional strength.

Maybe strength isn’t learning not to feel.

Perhaps strength is allowing ourselves to feel deeply without allowing those feelings to define us forever.

There is a beautiful difference.

Emotions are meant to be experienced.

They are not meant to become permanent residences.

Grief teaches us how deeply we loved.

Anger reminds us that something we value has been violated.

Disappointment tells us that we cared.

Longing reminds us that something was once beautiful enough to miss.

And joy? Joy reminds us why we keep opening our hearts to all of it.

None of these emotions are weaknesses.

They are evidence that we have lived.

Maybe that’s why the music I love most almost always feels deeply honest.

It doesn’t hide.

It doesn’t pretend.

It simply tells the truth.

And somehow, in hearing someone else brave enough to tell their truth, we become a little more comfortable embracing our own.

🍯 Honey Note

Never apologize for having a tender heart.

The world doesn’t need fewer people who feel deeply.

It needs more people brave enough to admit that they do.

The goal isn’t to avoid sadness, disappointment, anger, heartbreak, or longing. And it certainly isn’t to cling to them.

The goal is to feel them.

To listen to what they came to teach us.

And then, when their lesson is finished, to gently let them continue on their way.

Feel it.

Learn from it.

Then keep walking toward the light.

Because the most beautiful hearts aren’t the ones that have never been broken.

They’re the ones that have been broken, healed, and somehow remained open anyway.

With love,

Honey 🐝