Taking the Armor Off
“Hey! I know you’re really busy, but it’s been a few weeks since I checked in. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. How are things going?”
It was a text message from one of my closest friends. It had been a few weeks since our last check-in.
We’ve been friends a long time, and it was the kind of text that deserves a reply, but I sat on it for a few days before I finally did it. I kept thinking about replying to him, but really just didn’t know how to answer without a show-up-and-throw-up about how I wasn’t doing okay.
My hesitation told me everything I needed to know about where I was.
It’s a bit embarrassing to admit how often I’ve chosen silence over honesty and vulnerability. I’m not talking about those moments when opening up results in ugly crying and using up a half box of tissues to staunch the flow of snot. Honestly, those are somehow easier: just open the floodgates and let it all out at once.
I’ve spent the last 20 or so years building a version of myself that could hold it together no matter what. I prided myself on being someone reliable, grounded, and unshakeable; the kind of man who doesn’t need much, especially not from others.
For a long time, that seemed to work, or at least that was the story I kept telling myself.
I suppose that text came at just the right time. I was just open enough to let myself peer through the cracks to see how hard I was working to seem fine. How often I’d armored up, even with people who deserved to see the me inside the armor.
I’ve always been what I would call “low maintenance.” Honestly, I wore it like a badge. I believed it meant I was strong, easy to be around, likable, and the kind of person who doesn’t really take up much emotional real estate in other people. What I didn’t realize was that I had confused being strong with being detached. I had mistaken emotional distance for maturity. I had believed that the less I needed, the safer I would be.
That’s survival, not strength. And survival has a shelf life.
I keep telling myself that there was a time that armor served a purpose. I built it slowly, layer by layer, through years of workplaces that praised sacrifice for the cause over everything else.
In some ways, I became a master at anticipating the needs (and wants) of others so I could fix them before they knew they existed. At the same time, I was trying to stay ahead of my own pain.
The thing about rigid armor, though, is that the longer you wear it the more it shapes you. It shapes how others see you and how you see yourself. In a way, it gets heavier over time, which also makes it harder to take off.
And somewhere along the way, you forget what it feels like not to wear the armor, and that you don’t have to prove anything to take it off.
It’s interesting how that text from my friend caused some serious introspection. I didn’t want to look because it showed me what I’ve been working so hard to avoid: the truth that I am often still afraid of being seen for who I am. Most of the time, I still believe that my worth is tied to how well I perform under pressure.
That’s why I sat on that text for days. When I finally responded, I said, “Thanks. Things are really hard right now.” That was it.
“?”
That was his response. He wasn’t pressing for anything; just opening some space for me to share if I wanted. Sometimes, I feel like that friend knows me better than I know myself.
You ever cried over a question mark? That day, I did. I was feeling particularly overwhelmed. His awareness, in a lot of ways, is still like a foreign language to me. I’m 100% fluent in urgency and responsibility. In being the one others come to. I’m still learning how to be the one who reaches out for help.
There’s a cost to always being the strong one. You miss out on so many things. You also close yourself off, in a way, to the kind of love that doesn’t need you to earn it.
Sometimes, I still believe that real strength means never falling apart. But, I’m learning that’s not the case. Real strength is letting yourself be known. Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.
Taking the armor off isn’t one big decision. It’s a thousand small ones. Choosing to respond to the text. Saying “I don’t know” in a meeting. Letting someone else do “the thing”—whatever the thing is—when you’re worn out. Admitting when the old voices still whisper in your ear.
It’s standing in your own kitchen, staring at the phone, and saying the truest thing instead of the most impressive one.
I still don’t get it right very often. Most of the time, I still fall back into old behaviors. I still feel the pull to be impressive, competent, composed. But more and more, I am practicing another way. A slower way. One that makes room for truth over toughness.
Tenderness isn’t weakness. It’s more a kind of resilience. It’s the kind that stays present even when you feel vulnerable. It’s also the kind that listens first.
The kind that can hold grief, uncertainty, even joy, without shutting down.
And maybe that’s the life I’m building now. One where I don’t have to prove my value through what I carry. One where I can set the armor down, not because I’ve failed, but because I no longer need to wear it.
I am still learning to trust that.
And that is enough.
If any of this resonates with you, I wrote a book you might appreciate.
It’s called You Don’t Have to Escape to Be Free — a collection of my reflections on identity, meaning, and building a life I don’t want to run away from.
You can purchase a copy here:
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