Goldilocks Vulnerability
Navigating the conundrum of not enough, too much, and just right
“You’re not messy enough.”
I received this professional coaching from a well-intentioned colleague—someone regularly brought to tears of joy, sadness, or sympathy in a Zoom meeting.
Her guidance seemed to follow conventional wisdom. Brené Brown lauds the value of authenticity and vulnerability in the workplace. Fear and self-protection, she argues, show up as armor. Daring leaders must be willing to set the armor down, and support and celebrate those who do the same.
Early in my career, I forged a firm shield between my personal and work lives. An entry-level Account Coordinator at a high-powered ad agency, I received daily reminders of my inexperience, incompetence or limited value: an extra job as the executive assistant; regular asks to stay until 2 am to hole-punch a pitch deck; getting yelled at by creatives for inquiring on the status of a deliverable. The best defense, I figured, was to be as professional as possible. Devoid of all signs of life outside of work, my clear desk broadcasted focus, commitment, and diligence.
Many years later, after joining a new company, I took a similar approach. My desk was all work, no play.
“If you don’t put any pictures up, people will think you’re not sticking around,” a colleague advised with a dose of side eye.
I was afraid to share. At the office, I was a leader at an ambitious, private equity-backed company led by an all white, all male executive team. My department consisted exclusively of women, either married with kids or single in their early twenties. At home, I was a single mom navigating a contentious divorce. No matter the setting, my days were consumed by worry and stress.
I tried to open up. Pulling my boss aside into her office, I shared what I was going through. I set my armor down, revealing my personal challenges, all while committing to bring my best efforts to work.
Suddenly, all eyes were on the chinks.
When I didn’t reply to texts and emails at 10 pm, I wasn’t responsive enough. When a snow storm closed my daycare the day of an in-person local media segment, I shouldn’t have brought my son to the office. When I wore clothes within the dress code that fit my body, I was sent to HR.
Clearly, I was too messy.
A Goldilocks conundrum exists in the push for professional authenticity and vulnerability. Not enough. Too much. Rarely just right.
Those who nail it tend to fit the organization’s mold. Tomas Chamorro-Premuzic explains that organizations first pressed for bringing your “full self to work” as an effort towards inclusion, of preventing diverse employees from feeling pressured to conform. “It was a naive but good attempt to improve inclusion, because diversity without inclusion doesn’t work.” Nowadays, Chamorro-Premuzic says, when organizations ask you to bring your full self to work, what they’re actually asking for is your best professional self.
But “best” is subjective and defined by the organization’s norms. In her book and TED Talk, Jodi-Ann Burey debunks the myth of the authentic self at work. This rallying cry, she points out, puts a heavier burden on underrepresented groups—those who don’t fit the mold of their environment. Bringing your “authentic self” is easier when surrounded by similar models. It’s harder when those models are scarce or nonexistent. Often, the call for authenticity is contingent: upon what is convenient; upon what is comfortable; upon what is profitable.
No matter what I chose to do with my armor, I couldn’t seem to get it right. Keep it up, look like you’re one foot out the door. Take it off, you’re a liability. Try something in between, not vulnerable enough.
On an ayahuasca journey several years ago, I had a vision. I was on a battlefield, surrounded by dark figures. My body was sheathed in ornate, resplendent armor. I was fearful, but brave. As the vision continued, I saw my armor more closely. It was far from perfect. Made of iron, of shells, of netting, of bits and bobs, it was the accumulation of all my experience—the beauty, the sadness, the victories, and the failures. It had carried me through many dark passages. But I didn’t need to wear it all the time. In the darkness and in the light, I could choose to set the armor down. And trust that all of its strength still resides within me.
Brené Brown is right: sometimes you need to set the armor down. But so is Burey: you don’t have to do it on command. The armor isn’t the enemy and it isn’t the answer. Your choice is where brave leadership lies.
I try to model this in my own leadership. When I stand up to a belittling stakeholder on behalf of a junior consultant, even though my hands are shaking. When I reach out to a colleague who’s spiraling, and share a time I fumbled. When I counsel someone questioning their career trajectory, and reveal my own self-doubt.
These are disclosures by choice, at some risk, and wholly on my own terms. They don’t come with tears. They don’t come with drama. But, they are vulnerable. They are real. And they are mine.