Psychology explains why we often feel far closer to people who share their vulnerability than to those who only share their success

The first time I cried in front of a stranger, it was on a sun-faded bench outside a café in Fremantle. Hot coffee trembled in my hands, kookaburras were laughing somewhere in the gum trees, and a woman I’d only just met leaned forward and said, “Yeah… I’ve been there too.” The air shifted. The traffic hummed around us, the clink of cups and hiss of the milk steamer carried on, but it suddenly felt like the world had narrowed to the safe little space between her eyes and mine. I’d known her for thirty minutes. I felt closer to her than to some people I’d known for years.

Why the Cracks in Our Armour Connect Us

On paper, it doesn’t make much sense. We’re taught—especially in Western, achievement-focused cultures—to lead with our highlight reel. Promotions, personal bests at Parkrun, new cars, that photo from the Gold Coast surf trip where the sunset makes our lives look warmer than they really feel. Success is supposed to be magnetic. Yet most of us can recall a moment where someone’s unvarnished honesty hit us far harder than their longest list of accolades.

Psychology has a word for this: vulnerability. But that word gets thrown around so much it can start to sound like a lifestyle brand rather than a raw, biological phenomenon. Underneath the buzz, there’s a simple truth about the human brain: we’re wired to seek safety in connection, not perfection.

When someone shares their struggles—a messy breakup in Brisbane, the quiet panic of being between jobs in Adelaide, the way the bushfires or floods have left them feeling small and fragile—it signals something ancient in our nervous system. This person is not a threat, our amygdala decides. They’re like us: imperfect, uncertain, human. The defences we carry around every day, like invisible backpacks, slip off our shoulders for a moment. And in that drop, closeness rushes in.

Success, by contrast, can feel like a wall. The polished LinkedIn profile, the perfect Instagram feed full of Byron Bay sunrises and glowing skin, can leave us thinking: Good for you… but where do I fit in? Our brain does a social calculation in the background: if your life looks flawless and mine definitely doesn’t, maybe we’re not on the same team. That quiet distance is why we can scroll through hundreds of stories and still feel oddly alone.

The Pratfall Effect: Why a Spill of Coffee Matters More Than a Trophy

Back in the 1960s, American psychologist Elliot Aronson stumbled on something oddly comforting: people like competent people more when they make a mistake. He called it the “pratfall effect.” In experiments, participants listened to recordings of quiz show contestants. The high-performing contestants were liked best when they accidentally spilled coffee on themselves at the end. Their little clumsy moment didn’t ruin their image—it humanised it.

You’ve probably seen the Aussie version of this play out. A respected footy coach chokes up in a post-game press conference talking about mental health. A local business owner at a small-town event in Wagga Wagga admits they nearly went bankrupt before they got it right. A teacher in Perth laughs about bombing their first ever class. Suddenly, we lean in. That wobble, that honest crack in the façade, has more gravitational pull than another victory speech ever could.

Psychologically, here’s what’s happening:

• We update our “threat assessment.” Someone who seems too perfect can trigger envy, insecurity, or suspicion. A mistake or moment of vulnerability lowers that perceived “threat.”
• We feel permitted to be human. When others show their imperfections, our internal critic eases. Our nervous system settles. We can drop the performance too.
• We experience “relief bonding.” That subtle relief—“Oh thank God, it’s not just me”—releases a little cocktail of oxytocin and dopamine. The brain often associates that warm release with the person in front of us.

In other words, the pratfall effect explains why a person’s spilled coffee, shaky voice, or quiet confession often becomes the moment we remember them most fondly for. Our closeness rarely grows from their wins; it grows from the moment they let us see that they sometimes lose too.

Why Australian Culture Makes Vulnerability Both Harder and More Powerful

Australians have an odd relationship with vulnerability. On one hand there’s the deep, old rhythm of community here: neighbours checking on each other during a heatwave, strangers helping push a bogged ute out of soft sand, volunteers flying into flooded towns. There’s a cultural respect for “having a go” and looking out for the underdog that runs right back through First Nations stories of Country and kinship, and through the mythologised ANZAC mateship that still shapes our national identity.

On the other hand, we’re also home to the classic “harden up” mentality. Don’t make a fuss. Don’t be a sook. Keep it light. Banter is allowed; grief gets pushed to the edge of the barbecue where it can be masked with a joke and another snag. In many workplaces—from mine sites in WA to corporate towers in Sydney—there’s still a quiet pressure to be “resilient,” which sometimes becomes code for emotionally absent.

This tension means that when someone does break the script, the impact lands deeper than we expect. The tradie in Townsville who tells his mates he’s seeing a counsellor. The mum in Hobart who admits the baby years are breaking her heart as much as they’re filling it. The uni student in Canberra who tells a friend they’re not coping with the study load and the silence of being away from home. Because vulnerability is slightly taboo, it becomes potent. It cuts through the fog of “yeah, good, mate” and touches something we’ve all been longing to say.

Our brains are tuned to context. In a culture where “I’m fine” is the norm, “Actually, I’m not” shines like a flare over the ocean. It offers a chance for genuine human contact in a world of small talk—and that contrast is part of why it creates such strong feelings of closeness.

Behind the Warmth: The Science of Feeling Close

There’s a common myth that closeness is just about time. Spend enough hours with someone—your work colleagues, your footy team, the parents at school pick-up—and you’ll inevitably become close. Psychology keeps finding a different story.

What actually matters is the quality of what’s shared. Researchers studying intimacy talk about two big ingredients: self-disclosure and responsiveness. Self-disclosure is what you choose to share. Responsiveness is how the other person reacts.

When you tell someone in Melbourne that you’re worried about money, or confess to a sibling in Darwin that you’re lonely even though you’re surrounded by people, your brain is quietly watching for their response:

• Do they really listen?
• Do they dismiss it with “Ah, you’ll be right”?
• Do they try to fix it immediately, or do they simply stay with you in it?

If their response feels warm and non-judgemental, your nervous system gets a very old message: It’s safe to be seen here. That safety is the bedrock of closeness. The more often that cycle repeats—you risk a little, they meet you there—the stronger the trust becomes. It’s relational muscle memory.

Conversely, talking only about your successes doesn’t give the relationship anything substantial to hold. There’s nothing for the other person to respond to beyond “Congrats” or “That’s awesome.” It’s like trying to build a house on glass. It might look impressive from the outside, but the first sign of a storm and there’s nothing to grip.

The Sweet Spot: Real, But Not Oversharing

Vulnerability is not about dumping every raw thought or trauma on whoever happens to be standing nearby at a bus stop in Parramatta. Our brains like honesty, but they also like a sense of proportion and safety. There’s a balance to be found: enough openness to be real, not so much that it overwhelms.

Psychologists talk about “appropriate vulnerability”—sharing that matches the level of trust and context. It’s the difference between telling a new workmate, “I get nervous with presentations, so I’m a bit on edge,” and walking into the Monday meeting and unpacking your entire childhood. One invites connection. The other can trigger discomfort or even withdrawal.

A helpful way to think about it is in layers:

Layer	Type of Sharing	Example in Everyday Aussie Life
Surface	Facts & light opinions	Talking weather in Brisbane, footy scores, how bad the traffic was on the M5.
Personal	Preferences & mild frustrations	“I’m knackered from juggling work and the kids.”
Vulnerable	Fears, doubts, emotional truths	“I’m scared I’m not doing a good job as a parent right now.”
Deep	Core wounds, trauma, identity	“I’ve never told anyone this before but…” – usually for trusted, ongoing relationships or professionals.

You don’t have to race to the deepest layer for connection. Often, it’s the gentle vulnerable layer—“I’m actually a bit lonely since I moved here from Cairns” or “I’m anxious about this new role”—that unlocks genuine warmth. The key is intention: are you sharing to be seen and to connect, or to shock, offload, or demand rescue?

Practical Ways to Build Closer Bonds Through Vulnerability

If you’ve spent years perfecting the art of “no worries,” opening up more can feel about as natural as swimming in the Yarra in winter. But, like all skills, it grows with practice. A few simple shifts can change how close you feel to the people in your life across Australia—your share house in Newtown, your family in regional Victoria, your team spread across remote worksites.

Here are some gentle ways to experiment:

• Swap one “I’m fine” for something 10% more honest. “I’m alright, just a bit stressed about money at the moment.”
• Admit a small flaw first. “I always leave things to the last minute; I was up way too late finishing this report.”
• Share a story, not just a label. Instead of “I’m anxious,” try “Crowded trains really spin me out; I feel my heart racing.” Stories give people something to respond to.
• Respond differently when others open up. Pause. Look at them. “Thanks for telling me that. Do you want to talk it through or just vent?”
• Use humour as a door, not a shield. A self-deprecating joke can invite connection, but follow it up with a bit of truth rather than hiding behind punchlines.

Each tiny act of openness is a signal flare to the other person’s nervous system: we don’t have to pretend here. Over time, those signals build a landscape of trust—a bit like watching scrubland slowly fill with trees after good rain.

Letting People Love the Real You

If we’re honest, much of our obsession with success is less about pride and more about protection. In a nation that quietly worships competence—from the polished barista in Fitzroy who never messes up a flat white, to the surfer at Bondi who never misses a set—we think our achievements will keep us safe. If we’re impressive enough, maybe we’ll be immune to rejection.

The irony, of course, is that it’s the opposite. The parts of us we’re most desperate to hide—our doubts, our grief, the times we’ve felt small or broken—are often the exact places where others find a doorway in. We don’t love people for their uninterrupted winning streaks; we love them for how they carry their losses. We remember the mate who showed up when we were a mess, the aunt who admitted she’d stuffed up but kept trying, the partner who said, “I’m scared too,” and held our hand anyway.

Picture, for a moment, the people you feel most deeply connected to in your own life across this wide, weather-beaten country. Chances are, they’re not the ones who’ve only ever impressed you. They’re the ones who’ve let you see behind the curtain—the friend who broke down on a long drive through the Nullarbor, the colleague who confessed they were afraid of failing in front of the team, the sibling who whispered their biggest regret over the roar of the ocean at Cottesloe.

Psychology puts technical language around these moments—self-disclosure, oxytocin, the pratfall effect. But under all of that is something simpler and older: we’re pack animals. We survive and thrive not through individual perfection, but through shared imperfection.

So next time you’re tempted to polish the story—to leave out the uncertainty, the wobbles, the parts that don’t look good in a caption—consider this: the thing you’re about to hide might be the very thing that lets someone feel less alone. And in a world where so many of us are quietly starving for real connection, that small act of bravery might be worth more than any success you could ever post.

Frequently Asked Questions

Is it always good to be vulnerable with others?

Not always. Vulnerability is powerful, but it needs boundaries. It’s best shared with people who have shown they’re trustworthy and capable of holding what you share. With others—like casual acquaintances or in unsafe environments—keeping things more surface-level can be a healthy form of self-protection.

How do I know if I’m oversharing?

If you feel a “vulnerability hangover” afterwards—shame, panic, or regret that lingers—or if the person you’re speaking to looks visibly uncomfortable or overwhelmed, you may have gone deeper than the relationship could hold. Aim to match your level of sharing to the amount of trust and reciprocity already there.

What if I try to be vulnerable and the other person shuts down?

That can hurt, but it’s more about them than about you. Some people aren’t used to emotional honesty or may feel confronted by their own feelings. You can gently say, “I didn’t feel very heard just then,” or choose to be more reserved with that person in future. Your vulnerability deserves a respectful audience.

Can talking about my successes ever build closeness?

Yes—if you include the human side. Instead of just, “I got promoted,” you might add, “I’m excited, but honestly, I’m terrified I’ll stuff it up.” Sharing the emotions and effort behind success—the failures, doubts, and late nights—turns a brag into a bridge.

How can I encourage more genuine sharing in my friendships or workplace?

Model it in small, safe ways. Offer slightly more honest answers to “How are you?”, listen without rushing to fix, and thank people when they open up. Over time, people learn that it’s safe to be real around you, and the tone of the whole group can shift towards deeper, more supportive connection.