The Pulse of Presence

By Zyra Lentija

Vulnerability has a rhythm. It does not come all at once, nor does it remain fixed. It moves forward, pulls back, and returns. Like breathing, it relies on continuity, on remaining present even after misunderstanding, fatigue, or disappointment. When continuity breaks, vulnerability hardens into defensiveness or becomes performative or stiff. Rhythm is what allows it to endure.

In human relationships, vulnerability is often misunderstood. It is not simply emotional exposure, what they call TMI (too much information), oversharing, or a single dramatic confession. Instead, vulnerability signifies the willingness to be affected by another over time. It involves being available, willing to stay open, responding well, and present even when clarity diminishes. In this sense, vulnerability is less about revealing everything and more about staying committed.

The personalist tradition recognized this long before vulnerability became a popular cultural term. Emmanuel Mounier argued that the person is revealed not through isolated, intense moments but through ongoing commitment. For Mounier, fidelity isn’t rigidity but creative perseverance, a continuous reassertion of presence in relationships (Mounier 1952, 35 and 83-88). Vulnerability, therefore, is not weakness but endurance, a conscious decision to remain open even in “disconcerting circumstances” (Ibid., 93). 

Gabriel Marcel beautifully deepens this idea by describing fidelity as a way of being rather than just a rule to follow. In his book Creative Fidelity, he links fidelity to the concept of availability, the quiet reassurance that says, “You can count on me.” This isn’t about perfect circumstances or ideal conditions, but rather about embracing uncertainty with trust (Marcel 2002, 152-154). Genuine vulnerability matures only when it is cared for over time: through silence, disappointment, and even unpredictable moments. Fidelity, Marcel insists, isn’t simply about sticking to the same thing; it’s about actively nurturing a presence that remains alive and genuine (Ibid. 51-56).

Literature gives this philosophy and rhythm a human face. In The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoevsky depicts vulnerability not as a dramatic confession but as a gentle return. Alyosha’s kindness is steady and enduring. It’s rooted in his willingness to listen again. He remains present, even when misunderstood or rejected. Elder Zosima’s teachings beautifully reflect this idea: responsibility isn’t about a single heroic moment but about a lifelong attitude, quietly shown through how we treat others. (Dostoevsky 1990, Book VI, 373-413).

As Christmas nears, the rhythm becomes clearer, emphasizing continuity through familiar readings and repeated waiting. Christ’s coming is not marked by immediacy but by growth, dependence, and obscurity. God’s vulnerability is not a fleeting gesture but a fidelity to time itself. This isn’t a call for emotional excess but an invitation to stay. In a culture of quick disclosures and instant intensity, such fidelity restores rhythm. Vulnerability becomes not a spectacle but the pulse of presence: steady, returning, and alive within shared time. It is a way of inhabiting time, together. 

 

Bibliography

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. 2009. The Brothers Karamazov. Trans. Constance Garnett. Project Gutenberg, www.gutenberg.org.  

Marcel, Gabriel. 2002. Creative Fidelity. Trans. Robert Rosthal. New York: Fordham University Press.

Mounier, Emmanuel. 1952. Personalism. Trans. Philip Mairet. New York: The Grove Press.