It Shouldn’t Take Courage ... To Cry - by Corey Martin, MD

“Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity.” - Brené Brown

I cry a lot.  There. I said it.

I cry when I’m moved. I cry when I’m overwhelmed. I cry when I finally feel something I’ve been trying not to feel. And yes—I cry on retreats. In fact, one of my unofficial goals at every retreat I lead is to get everyone to cry. Not in a manipulative way, of course, but in the deeply human, “Oh wow, I just touched something real in myself” kind of way. Because when the tears come, the walls fall. And when the walls fall, real connection begins.

We’ve done ourselves a disservice in this culture—especially in medicine, especially in leadership, especially as grown adults—by turning crying into a liability. Like it’s something to be ashamed of. Something you do behind closed doors or, worse, apologize for. But here’s the truth: crying isn’t a weakness. It’s a release valve. A sacred biological response. And often, it’s the first brave step toward healing.

We’re so conditioned to view vulnerability in ourselves as weakness—like if we cry, we’ve lost control. But interestingly, it’s the very thing we seek in others to feel safe. We’re drawn to people who are real. Who let their guard down. Who say, “This is hard,” and mean it. In others, vulnerability looks like strength. In ourselves, it feels like risk. And yet, it’s the exact thing that connects us heart to heart.

There’s something primal about crying. It bypasses the rational brain and drops us right into the limbic system—where all the grief, all the letting go, all the unprocessed stuff lives. Whether it’s ambiguous loss (the kind that doesn’t come with a funeral but still hurts like hell) or the slow ache of burnout or the jagged edges of forgiveness work, crying helps move it through. Not out of weakness, but because the body is wise. Tears carry cortisol. They regulate breathing. They tell the nervous system, “It’s okay now. You can soften.”

And softening, contrary to what we’ve been taught, is not the same as breaking.

When someone cries at a retreat check-in, it’s like an invitation is issued to the whole room: Let’s stop pretending. Let’s stop polishing the armor and comparing the highlight reels. Let’s just… be human together. I’ve watched people become lifelong friends after crying together on day one. I’ve seen colleagues let go of years of guardedness in a single moment of shared pain. You want to talk about transformation? Start with tears.

So if you find yourself crying more than you’d like—at work, on a walk, in the car, while watching that commercial with the dog and the soldier coming home—please don’t shame yourself. You’re not too sensitive. You’re not “being dramatic.” You’re being alive.

Crying is a form of release. It’s what forgiveness feels like when it finally starts to move. It’s what grief sounds like when it says, “I’m still here, waiting to be honored.” And it’s what vulnerability looks like when it dares to show up uninvited—and leaves you lighter for it.

Tears are brave. Let them come.