It’s OK to Be Cringe: How to (Responsibly) Alchemize Your Vulnerability
"The place in which I'll fit will not exist until I make it." - James Baldwin
As the shameless influencer era of the 2010s comes to a satisfying lull, the moment begs the question: what does it mean to be visible, creative, and authentic in modern cultural conversations, both online and IRL?
One thing I’ve become increasingly aware of is that people are experiencing digital fatigue in droves. Overwhelm abounds. Folks are craving physical spaces to freely express themselves, away from tiny screens and the ensuing text neck. The digital world is never-ending, overstimulating, and banal, even. But analog? Analog is sensual, tangible, and present. Analog is something you can grab onto and sink your teeth into. Analog is, well, real—in a way that a screen tries to be but can never quite achieve.
This, my friends, is great news for poetry.
NYT Bestselling poet and author Cleo Wade recently shared in a conversation with Nicole Richie at the Los Angeles release for her latest book, IN A WORLD OF SUNRISES, that poetry is having a renaissance. As a poet myself, I’m biased, but I tend to agree.
What an energizing and beautiful sentiment—that poetry endures, despite modern society’s fragments. Of course, this also comes with new perspectives to consider.
Arguably, the most powerful forms of art draw on our own lived experiences. But accessing these experiences can stir up a cocktail of emotions: euphoria, melancholy, embarrassment, relief, and shame. The act of spelunking your own psychic depths to create art? Satisfyingly terrifying. Making said art and sharing it with others? Downright frightful. But what’s scarier—baring your thoughts and facing potential criticism, or keeping those thoughts locked away, left to fester indefinitely? Or better yet, seeing someone else share your same sensibility and being supported—nay, praised—for doing so?
So, dear reader, this brings me to my humble plea, the crux of this post: embrace the cringe. Embrace the messy, the haunting, the “shameful,” the downright ugly. That embarrassing moment you replay over and over again in the quiet recesses of your imagination at night? That aching heartbreak you can’t seem to shake off, from someone you were never even officially in a relationship with? I can nearly guarantee you someone else feels the exact same. And if not? Well, you just became a trendsetter.
As poetry becomes further entrenched in the current lexicon, it’s time to examine our relationship with what makes poetry worthwhile in the first place: vulnerability.
Whether you’re new to poetry or far along your writing journey, I offer some guidelines for cultivating creative vulnerability responsibly:
Cringe is opinion, not fact. How someone perceives your poetry is just that—a perception. Your opinion is what matters first and foremost about your work. Do YOU like it? Does it feel genuine and authentic to your own creative voice and expression?
Cringe is universal. Okay, so you’ve confirmed that your messiest feelings are, in fact, just feelings, and not pieces of hard evidence to be litigated. I’ve got more good news for you—there’s an infinite well of cringe inspiration (cringespiration?) at your disposal. You can find it everywhere. Some of the most prolific poets, writers, and artists have produced some of the cringiest (read: liberated) work. And it is powerful and vulnerable and uncomfortable—and maybe even sometimes not very good, but it’s honest. And that’s worth celebrating.
…But also highly individual. So I know I just said that cringe is universal, and it is in the sense that everyone can and will experience feelings of gaping vulnerability. However, the manner and style of output in which we metabolize our vulnerability is unique. Just as we experience vulnerability through our own unique lens, it’s also our choice to decide what to do with it. Poetry is the outlet by which we can frolic within the kaleidoscope of our own minds.
Cringe begets more cringe. Freedom of expression is the engine that drives more of the same. The more you practice expressing yourself freely through your poetry, the more you will uncover some pretty cool concepts that will further propel your work. Our elders were right; practice does make perfect.
Cringe, then rest. You are not a machine. Sometimes being vulnerable can leave behind some painful emotional residue. Thinking and writing about difficult experiences can be draining; grant yourself patience, and take breaks as needed. If you need space to sit with the work before you share it, take that space. And, if you decide after you’ve written it, edited it, polished it, edited it again, and sat with it some more that you’d rather not share it at all, honor your truth.
Be emboldened by the power of your own experiences. They were not and are not in vain. They have the ability to propel you to places you only dream of. Be fearless in your attempts to put pen to paper and make something from the sensitive parts of your spirit. That is where freedom lives. Not in shrinking or separating or compartmentalizing, but rather through present reflection.
The cringe in me honors the cringe in you.
Elizabeth Price (she/her) is a poet, author, journalist, and award-winning social impact leader. She is the author of “A Yearner’s Soliloquy” (World Stage Press, 2026), a cringey book about desire. Her writing, performances, and opinions have appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, Vox, Essence, the Los Angeles Poet Society, the Poetry Brothel, and more. She lives, works, and plays in Los Angeles.
