This is scary. Terrifying, really. At three years old, I crouch behind the pant leg of my mother's faded blue jeans, grappling with the tears escaping down my cheeks and tracing the yellow paint stain on the hem of her pants. I will not cry in front of anyone. So I hide where no one can find me and allow my tears to dampen the fraying hem of my mother's jeans. At fifteen years old, my sister is driving us toward our Pennsylvania Furnace home when I feel the force of the world hit me in the head, feel it ricochet through my body. I feel my sister's scream inside me, drowning me. The car spins in circles. I dig my nails into my shirt, clench my jaw until it hurts, and squeeze my eyes shut. The car screeches to a halt. When the world stops moving, everything is silent, except for my sister's endless scream. I wince – her fear digs inside me and claws violently at my heart. She finally quiets and silence blankets the world. In the moment when the other driver ran a stop sign and the crash occurred, I felt more vulnerable than I ever had before. In the days and weeks following the crash, I could not hide. There was no paint stain for me to trace and no blue jeans to catch my tears. I had to face the world with tears streaming down my cheeks and my chest heaving with sobs. When I called my mom and heard the gut-wrenching fear in her voice, I cried. When my dad hugged me like he had almost lost everything, I cried. As I watched my heart rhythm on the way to the hospital, I cried. When the police officer arrived at the door to inform us that the other driver had died the night before, I cried. It was scary. Terrifying, really. I will never be thankful for that experience. Nevertheless, I have grown from it. That day could not be as senseless as it was; there was nothing to do except become stronger. I have used the two years since that day to learn that from vulnerability comes strength and growth. I have learned to allow myself to share authentic emotions with the people around me, and to build more genuine relationships through that connection. Vulnerability need not be defined by fear; it can be embraced as the freedom to connect with someone on a deeper level. I bring this freedom to my friendships, to my teaching, to my leadership roles. I connect with friends through reflection on the closing of our time in high school. In sharing deeper sentiments with the people I care about – laughing and crying and doing both at the same time – I feel free to share raw emotion. I tell my dance students to never be afraid to express exactly what they are feeling and to leave everything on the stage. In teaching young dancers how to have a gut, I feel free to be vulnerable enough to show my own. In giving everything I have as a leader – not just time and resources, but also commitment and passion – I feel free to trust the people around me, and I feel strong enough to cultivate the growth in others I have seen in myself. Fear of vulnerability no longer hinders me. I step out from behind my mother's pant leg and let go of the fraying hem. I never touch the yellow paint stain. I use my own shirt to dab away the tears on my cheeks, and I stand on my own. In my most vulnerable moment, I saw fear of vulnerability for what it truly is: fear of failure and pain. I came to know that true vulnerability fosters life-changing growth. This is scary. Terrifying, really. But from it, I will grow.