Armor & Weapons: The Cost of Self-Protection and the Call to Live Authentically

There was a time in my life when I entered every room ready to defend myself.
Not outwardly—with raised voice or rigid posture—but quietly, in subtle judgments that insulated me from connection. I would scan the space, assess who was safe, who might dismiss me, who I needed to keep at a distance. Before anyone had the chance to form an opinion about me, I had already formed one about them.

It wasn’t because I didn’t want connection. It was because I was afraid of being humiliated, misread, or rejected. So I carried my fear like armor, and I used my sharpest thoughts as protection.
If I judged you first, it wouldn’t sting as much when you judged me. If I rehearsed my shame privately, yours couldn’t catch me off guard.

What no one tells you is that sometimes, the things that wound us the most become the very tools we use to survive. And those tools—while once protective—eventually become barriers between ourselves and the life we long to live.

The Many Faces of Armor

Judgment was my armor—but it’s not the only kind.

Some people protect themselves through perfectionism—curating every word, every move, every surface. Others perform, adapting to whatever version of themselves feels safest in a given room. Some disappear altogether, staying small and silent so they won’t risk rejection.

Cynicism is another kind of armor—it allows you to expect the worst so you won’t be caught off guard. Sarcasm, too—a form I personally struggle to be around—is honesty wrapped in cruelty, disguised as humor. It keeps people at arm’s length by making vulnerability the punchline.

Then there are those who use spiritual language to avoid discomfort—people who quote mystical truths like makeup, layering on concepts to cover what’s unresolved underneath. I’ve known people who could recite profound teachings while refusing to engage with their own harm or contradictions. The complexity of their words masked a deep disconnection from their own behavior.

Some people over-give to feel needed, while others withhold to maintain control. Some stay “strong” to avoid ever needing help, and some weaponize softness to appear innocent while never truly letting others in.

These are all forms of protection—but they are also forms of absence. They keep us safe in the short term, but they also keep us hidden, guarded, and half-connected. They create distance from intimacy, from joy, from being known and loved as we truly are.

And still, I believe our armor tells a story worth listening to.

Mine revealed how quickly I could process a room, how fast I could gather information, connect patterns, make assessments. Judgment was a way of staying one step ahead—of potential rejection, misunderstanding, abandonment—but underneath it was a lack of emotional maturity. I didn’t yet know how to discern with care instead of defensiveness. I hadn’t yet learned that being seen isn’t what makes us unsafe—being misunderstood and having no tools to repair it, that’s what I was afraid of.

Our armor forms around something real: an unmet need, an early adaptation, a gift that grew sideways. It may have started as protection, but if we listen, it can lead us back to something essential we’ve been trying to express all along.

becoming guarded in an unsafe world

We don’t build armor out of nowhere. We build it from experience—from moments when softness wasn’t safe, when truth carried consequences, when asking for help was met with silence, shame, or withdrawal.

We learn quickly: vulnerability can carry risk. So we adapt. We protect. We develop strategies to survive what once felt unbearable.

Those strategies often sound like:

“If I criticize myself first, your judgment can’t undo me.”
“If I shrink, maybe I won’t be ‘too much’ and I’ll be accepted.”
“If I stay strong, no one will see how scared I really am.”

None of this is foolish. It’s adaptive—these are biological responses dressed in social behavior, shaped by the nervous system’s need to survive in environments where connection isn’t guaranteed. In today’s world, we don’t just survive as individuals—we survive as a social species. And when belonging feels fragile, protection becomes instinct.

But over time, the cost of carrying protection begins to outweigh its usefulness. The longer we stay protected, the more distant we become from ourselves. We begin to parade versions of ourselves that aren’t fully true—performing what’s acceptable in order to belong. And in doing so, we don’t just feel disconnected, we start to lose trust in our own inner voice.

We lose presence—because we’re constantly managing how we appear.
We lose connection—because we’re not fully there.
We lose softness—because we stay guarded.
We lose ourselves—because we begin to mistake suppression for safety.

At worst, we fall into patterns of self-loathing—because we’ve abandoned ourselves in the name of safety.

Armor might shield us from harm, but what protects us one day, imprisons us the next.

When the Armor No Longer Fits

Something began to shift in me—not all at once, but quietly, over time. It started during a retreat-based learning program I joined, one rooted in self-discovery and community. I didn’t know what to expect, only that I wanted to grow.

That first retreat, I walked in guarded. I assessed the room without meaning to. I looked for emotional exits before I fully entered. But almost immediately, something felt different. The vulnerability others brought into that space—the honesty, the depth, the courage to be seen without performance—disarmed something in me. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t demanded. It was simply modeled.

Over time, I began to soften. The masks I’d been wearing didn’t fall away in a dramatic moment—they simply stopped making sense. I gave myself grace. I stayed open. And what I received in return was awe-inspiring. When someone shares who they truly are—not who they think they should be, but who they actually are—you can’t help but be moved. You can’t help but remember that soul-level beauty lives in all of us.

Ten months later, we didn’t leave that program as polished versions of ourselves. We left stripped back, renewed—not because we had finally gotten it right, but because we had stopped performing.

That’s when I understood: the armor I had carried for so long wasn’t just heavy—it no longer fit. It had been shaped by an earlier version of me, one who needed protection at all costs, but that version had changed.

I had changed—and I wasn’t willing to hide anymore.

Setting Down the Armor

Unmasking. Disarming. Softening.

Pulling off the mask, loosening the straps of old protection, setting down the sword you’ve carried for too long—not in defeat, but in relief—that’s where authenticity begins.

Living authentically doesn’t mean speaking without filter or offering your wounds to anyone who will listen (I have been on both ends of this spectrum—hiding and oversharing— no judgment!). It means allowing yourself to be seen—without the masks, without the posturing, without the performance. It means learning to speak, even when your voice isn’t steady. To take up space, even when it feels uncomfortable. To say, “This is who I am,” not with defiance, but with quiet integrity.

Authenticity isn’t an act of exposure. It’s an act of honoring who you are, what your values are, and living your life in accordance with that information.

Over time, I began to notice that the more I softened toward myself, the more space others had to do the same. When I stopped holding myself to impossible standards, I stopped projecting those standards onto everyone around me. When I released the need to be untouchable, I began to feel tenderness move through my life—in my relationships, in my work, in the way I listened.

Self-liberation isn’t a solitary act. It changes how we relate, how we show up, and how we create space for others to do the same.

If you’re still carrying your own version of armor, let me say this:

You were not wrong to protect yourself. You were wise. You did what you had to do.

But if the armor has started to feel heavy…
If the mask is harder to hold…
If something in you is aching to be seen—you are ready to let go.

You don’t need to rip it all off at once—but you can loosen the straps.

Not because it’s safe—it will never be fully safe—but because you’re ready to be real.