When Vulnerability Feels Like a Performance

I got into a master’s program I’ve dreamed about. I also had to turn it down. This is not a story about failure or redemption, it’s about the quiet space in between.

Last month, I received news that I had been conditionally accepted into the Master’s program in Human Ecology at Lund University in Sweden. The theme of the program — Culture, Power and Sustainability — felt like it had been tailored for someone like me. It was interdisciplinary, systems-oriented, and grounded in ecological thinking.

Each part of the theme echoed something I had long been drawn to. Culture, because I’ve always been fascinated by the ways people make meaning — through heritage, language, and everyday rituals. Power, because I care about who gets to decide, who gets left out, and how systems shape access and opportunity. And sustainability, because I believe that long-term change — whether social, environmental, or personal — has to be rooted in care, not just efficiency.

The program brought together these strands of curiosity into one thoughtful container. For a moment, it felt like everything aligned. It wasn’t just an academic opportunity; it was a reimagining of my next chapter.

The acceptance came with a condition I couldn’t ignore: the financial barrier. I had applied for a scholarship to support my studies, knowing it was highly competitive. Despite the odds, I allowed myself to hope. For weeks, I toggled between restraint and excitement. Between Googling housing options in Lund and telling myself, “Hey, don’t get too attached!”, I even began mentally mapping my life in Sweden, down to the kind of coat I’d need for winter.

Then came the rejection.

At first, I felt… surprisingly okay. I had rehearsed this outcome so often that when it arrived, it felt like a confirmation, not a collapse. I went about my day as usual. I worked. I replied to emails. I went to my pilates class. I cooked dinner. But that stability turned out to be temporary. The real weight of the news came days later, not with the email itself but in the retelling — when I had to say out loud to a friend or family member, “I got accepted… but I can’t go,” That was when the grief surfaced, not as devastation but as a quiet, persistent ache.

It wasn’t a dramatic kind of grief. There were no sobs, no grand gestures of mourning. But there was a heaviness. The kind that sits on your chest, unresolved. I felt a sense of loss — not just for the opportunity, but for the version of myself I had briefly believed in. And more than that, I struggled with how to carry that grief in public.

The Decision to Share

Eventually, I decided to share it in the most “me” way possible: carefully, cryptically, and on my own terms. I posted a carousel on Instagram. It wasn’t an outright explanation, and it certainly wasn’t a call for sympathy. It was, in a way, my way of acknowledging the moment. The last images hinted at the bigger story: a screenshot of the acceptance, tarot cards I pulled the morning of the announcement day, and a song that mirrored my emotional landscape: Softens by Wet. It was a subtle release, meant more for myself than anyone else.

Still, the process of sharing gave me pause. I noticed how much time I spent curating the visuals, adjusting the order of the slides, timing the music. I was being vulnerable, yes, but I was also designing the vulnerability. That contradiction stuck with me.

Between Expression and Performance

In this age of digital storytelling, even our most honest moments come with framing. We’ve learned how to share failure with finesse. How to dress grief in soft filters and rounded captions. We want to be real, but not raw. We want to connect, but also protect ourselves. There is a choreography to it: a calculated rhythm of what to say, how much to reveal, and how it might land.

Sometimes I wonder: If you rehearse your grief, is it still grief? If you share your loss with a soft filter, is it still honest?

These questions linger not because I think the answer is no, but because the answer is complicated.

I’ve done this before. I did it when I said goodbye to a team I loved. I did it when I quietly admitted I wasn’t “moving on” as gracefully as I’d hoped. In each case, the act of sharing gave me clarity but it also made me question where the line was between honesty and performance. Am I processing or producing? The answer, I think, is both.

Vulnerability doesn’t always need to be spontaneous or messy to be real. Sometimes, curation is what makes sharing feel safe. Sometimes, editing our grief makes it bearable. And maybe, the fact that we still choose to share — despite the complexity of how we share — is a kind of strength.

What I’m Holding Onto

I am still proud of the acceptance, even if it didn’t lead to enrollment. I’m proud that I applied. That someone across the world read my application and thought I belonged there. That matters. And I want to hold space for that pride, not just tuck it away because the ending wasn’t picture-perfect.

I’m also learning to notice when I downplay things. When I protect myself too well. When I dismiss moments that deserve to be celebrated — even if they don’t come with a happy ending. The scholarship rejection wasn’t a personal failure. It was a systemic reality. But getting into the program? That was personal. That was mine.

So I shared. Not for closure, not for affirmation. Just to make it real.

Because sometimes vulnerability doesn’t look like crying on camera or pouring your heart out in paragraphs. Sometimes it looks like a quiet post, a song playing in the background, a few images that mean more to you than anyone else. And sometimes, that’s enough.