Not sentimentality. The opposite.
There’s a type of vulnerability that’s performed — all watery eyes and emotional manipulation, designed to make people feel sorry for you. That’s not what this is. That’s cloying, and audiences hate it.
Real vulnerability is much simpler. It’s the gap between who you are and who you’re pretending to be. The moment you let that gap show.
My origin story starts with a temper tantrum. That’s not impressive. It’s not the sort of thing most business people lead with. But it’s true, and it’s human. Then sadness, confusion, the need to rebuild. Universal experiences. Every person listening has been wrong, has been angry, has felt lost. The moment those things appear in a story, something shifts.
The paradox is this: actual vulnerability projects more strength than pretending to have it all figured out.
This is partly neurological. When someone shows you they’re flawed, your brain relaxes a little. They’re not going to judge you as harshly, because they’ve already admitted their own flaws. It creates symmetry — mutual understanding instead of performance. But it’s also partly because watching someone be honest is rare. Most people hide behind masks. Most business interactions happen behind carefully constructed personas. The moment someone drops theirs, you pay attention.
Here’s the thing: it doesn’t have to be a big dramatic revelation. Small, true vulnerability often lands harder than a confession of something massive. A moment of uncertainty. An admission that you didn’t know something you were supposed to know. A sentence that shows you’re still figuring this out, not pretending you already have.
The rule isn’t “pour your trauma into your marketing.” It’s “let people see that you’re human.” Because ethos — whether people trust you — isn’t built on perfection. It’s built on credibility, which requires evidence that you’re real.
Show the work. Show the doubt. Show the learning.
That’s what makes people believe you know what you’re talking about.