It takes great courage to be vulnerable. It takes enormous

The words of John Eldredge resound with timeless truth and quiet fire: “It takes great courage to be vulnerable. It takes enormous strength to be a real woman.” In this brief utterance lies the echo of centuries of unspoken valor—the kind that does not roar on the battlefield, but endures in silence, in compassion, in faith, and in the relentless heart that loves despite being wounded. For what is vulnerability but the willingness to open one’s soul to joy and pain alike? And what is strength, if not the endurance to remain tender in a world that hardens hearts?

Eldredge, a writer of the soul, sought to reveal that the world’s understanding of feminine power had long been distorted. In a society that prizes control and hardness, he dared to remind us that the essence of true womanhood—and indeed, of true humanity—is not in invulnerability, but in the courage to feel deeply. To be vulnerable is to risk the breaking of one’s heart; to be real is to stand before the world unmasked, unguarded, and yet unbowed. This, he taught, requires a strength far greater than the might of armies or the armor of pride.

The ancients knew this truth long before Eldredge’s pen gave it new voice. Consider Queen Esther, who stood before the throne of a tyrant king to plead for her people, knowing that her life could end with a single command. She wore no armor, carried no sword, yet her vulnerability became her power. Her courage did not come from force but from faith, from the strength to speak when silence was safer, from the love that burned brighter than fear. Thus, in her gentleness lay her victory; in her humility, her triumph. She showed the world that the bravery of a woman’s heart can alter the course of nations.

It is a mistake to think that vulnerability is weakness. The truly weak are those who cannot bear to feel, who hide behind indifference and pride. To be open—to trust, to forgive, to nurture—is the act of a warrior soul. The mother who endures childbirth, the widow who raises her children alone, the lover who forgives betrayal, the healer who tends to the suffering—each of these embodies a strength that does not shout, but glows with quiet defiance. Their courage is not the absence of fear, but the decision to love despite it.

In our age, where masks are worn as armor and emotions are hidden as flaws, the real woman—the one who feels, who weeps, who hopes, who speaks truth—is a revolutionary force. She does not surrender her soul to cynicism. She walks through pain without letting it turn her heart to stone. She knows that tenderness is not frailty but divine fire. Her compassion, her honesty, her capacity for love—these are not wounds to be concealed, but crowns to be worn.

Eldredge’s words remind both men and women that true strength lies in authenticity. The “real woman” he speaks of is not confined by the world’s expectations. She is not measured by appearance, nor by obedience to empty roles. Her power flows from her ability to remain true to her heart in a world that constantly bids her to silence it. The courage to be vulnerable is the courage to be fully alive—to face the world with open eyes, open hands, and an open heart.

And so, what lesson may we draw from this sacred truth? Let every woman—and every soul—learn to see vulnerability as valor. Do not hide your heart behind walls; let it breathe, even when the air burns. Speak truth even when your voice trembles. Love deeply, even when love wounds you. For in those moments, you do not fall—you rise. The power of authentic strength is not in the conquest of others, but in the mastery of oneself.

Therefore, to live this wisdom, begin each day with the courage to be real. Let tears be a form of strength, let compassion be your weapon, and let honesty be your crown. For the world does not need perfect people—it needs brave hearts. And when the generations after you speak of power, may they remember not those who never broke, but those who broke open—and from their openness, gave light to all mankind.