The Cost of Being Vulnerable

How the demand for trauma narratives does more harm than good

Your secret is your prisoner, if you speak of it, you become its prisoner
سِرُّكَ أَسيرُكَ، فَإِذَا تَكَلَّمْتَ بِهِ صِرْتَ أَسيرَهُ
-Imam Ali/الإمام علي-

..If you have overcome adverse circumstances in order to attend university, we encourage you to provide that information here. Point form is preferred.

…Strong personal statements draw on your experience by including specific examples with vivid details.

It is widely known and culturally circulated that the greater one’s trauma, the greater the reward. No one can resist a rags-to-riches story. A perilous background. A humble origin. What differentiates the greatest cyclists from the mediocre ones are the sorrowful stories that accompany them. It is no longer enough to be an author, a poet, or an engineer; one must have lost a loved one along the way, if not their very soul. “Not just a doctor, but a doctor who studied under the light of an oil lamp. Not just an engineer, but an engineer who walked two miles to get to school.” No sooner are such trials overcome than they are trotted out as forefronts for introductions, biographies, interviews, and conversations. Or so this humble writer once thought.

To partake in my history is something I wish to do, yet in an odd paradoxical sense feel strongly against. I can start a portion, and it is like supplying water by means of irrigation to nourish that unambiguous seedling, but then, seemingly of its own accord, this supposed stream flows on its own, nourishing others seeds that I did not wish to be nourished, and branching to other crops that I did not wish to be touched. And having no way to stop this flooding for what was only meant to be my one little seedling, I have to withhold the entirety of the water supply lest I swamp a field I worked hard to protect. If I can’t tell all, then I shall tell none; and here is a case when all cannot be told in this manner, lest “I destroy and betray myself for nothing.” And yet, that very betrayal came in full force when I wrote my scholarship application essays.

It’s no secret now that I applied to and was accepted by a university. The next step was applying for scholarships, a process so emotionally draining that, by the end of it, I wished I had never begun at all.

I remember writing my first scholarship essay with a knot in my chest, recalling what I had worked so hard to forget. I forced meaning onto fresh wounds, reshaping pain to fit the tidy “everything happens for a reason” arc. But sometimes, things don’t happen for a reason. This forced optimism creates a false sense of gain: I went through this, so I must have come out stronger, when in truth, the loss is hollow and unredeemed. In these essays, I dig into wounds yet to heal, scrape at scars still forming, and inflict unnecessary harm trying to make sense of what was nothing but misfortune. Yet I must shape it all to be palatable for a university committee.

The stories we’re asked to tell must fit a pre-approved mold: Sorrowful enough to elicit sympathy, but not so sorrowful as to cause discomfort. Vulnerable enough to spark a savior’s instinct, but not so vulnerable as to seem like a liability. Honest enough to sound authentic, but not so honest as to sound desperate. Troubled, but only in ways that can be marketed. To have gone through something traumatic and be asked to recount it within such tight constraints is like drinking twelve cups of coffee and being told to sit still for hours. It’s suffocating.

What’s worse is when your story doesn’t match the “image.” I remember the shock of reading about the scholarship finalists. Applicants who worked part-time to pay for art lessons, while I came from a world where we worked and economized for basic necessities. Parents with two jobs just to pay for extra courses, while others would scorn the very act of pursuing personal endeavours. The scholarship was supposed to support students in financial need, students starting from zero. And I remember thinking: If they’re at zero, what does that make us?

As I and all “outsiders” know, our traumas do not tick the boxes that universities require. We did not lose a relative to cancer, but to war. Our parents were not alumni, but immigrants, refugees, expatriates—forced out of their homelands by war, destruction, and all the horror that follows. But when such stories are shared, they are often dismissed or overlooked. What becomes of the one who writes about the ordeals of his grandparents and parents, only to see the spotlight shine on applicants recalling how they rebuilt a car with their father, or how their grandmother passed down unpublished writings, citing gender-based publishing restrictions, while your own grandmother was never taught to read? No, this is not equal opportunity. The “adverse circumstances” they claim to value are often only those that flatter the reviewer’s ego, not those that truly measure the weight of endurance.

This is precisely where the problem lies. The issue isn’t with the students, they deserve their places. It’s with the institutions that market dreams under the guise of opportunity, while treating students like investments. And yes, you might argue, “Of course they’re investments.” But again, that is not the problem. It’s the universities that push prompts like:

“If you have overcome adverse circumstances in order to attend university, we encourage you to provide that information here. Point form is preferred,”

and “Strong personal statements draw on your experience by including specific examples with vivid details.”

Traumatic experiences are reduced to bullet points; vulnerability is handed over to universities as part of an application process that feels more transactional than human.The gears are already in motion. Adverse circumstances, framed and filtered to a tolerable degree, are prompted, and thus supplied, only to be met with silence or dismissal. This dismissal, after all the reminders, writing, revising, and editing, over and over again, constantly digging into oneself, is incredibly harmful to the individual. Especially when only few people may be awarded the scholarship, while countless others apply. For every one person who receives the reward, hundreds have paid the price for daring to be vulnerable.

Announcement

I’d like to take this moment to announce that I’ll be transitioning to partially paid posts. As it stands now, I bear the entirety of my university expenses, which understandably alters things.

The publishing schedule will remain the same, weekly poetry every Wednesday and occasional Sunday essays. However, two out of the four monthly poetry posts will now be available exclusively to paid subscribers. In these, I’ll be diving deeper into classical poetry, exploring the works of Al-Mutanabbi, Abu Nuwas, Antarah ibn Shaddad, Ibn Zaydun, and others.

The Substack community has grown beyond anything I ever imagined, and I plan to engage more actively through the chat. Weekly prompts, poetry discussions, and requests are all welcome. I’ll also begin sharing selected poems from the community, as I receive countless dm’s from readers sharing their work (Arabic and English both warmly welcomed.)

Unlike the essays that left me with new scars, I genuinely enjoyed writing this piece. It feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I have many more essays waiting in the archives, and I’d love your help deciding what topic to explore next.