There’s a kind of leadership armor we don’t even realize we’re wearing—until we take it off.
Mine looked like polish, preparedness, and perfection. A steady voice. A well-practiced calm. Confidence in every answer. Presence, poised.
I thought it made me trustworthy. Credible. Safe.
But during the early days of launching the Canada Delivery Center for Promontory, I learned that the armor that protects us can also create distance—and that the trust I hoped to build required something entirely different.
It was winter in Toronto. The kind of cold that lingers in your bones. I was jet-lagged, running on too much caffeine and too little sleep, standing in front of a room full of newly hired leaders.
Some were stepping into formal leadership for the first time. Others had led before, but not in a high-pressure, high-visibility, fast-growth environment like this.
I had just finished re-reading Dare to Lead by Brené Brown on the plane ride over the night before.
It hit home. The language of “armored leadership” versus “daring leadership” felt uncomfortably familiar. I recognized myself in the drive to be the knower, to control outcomes, and to lead from strength—because uncertainty can feel like a risk, and risk can feel like a failure waiting to happen.
So there I was. A room full of people. Slides loaded. Stories queued. I was ready.
But something was off.
They were excited—but I could also sense the tension just beneath the surface. The energy was hopeful but guarded.
As we talked about the vision for the Canadian Delivery Center—the pace of growth, the opportunity ahead—I noticed it. Their questions were thoughtful, but cautious. Their posture attentive, but just a little closed off. The kind of quiet that says, “I’m listening—but I’m not sure if I can show you everything I’m feeling yet.”
They were taking it all in—but not quite opening up.
There was an invisible wall between us.
Not out of resistance—out of vulnerability.
And if I was honest with myself, I had built part of that wall too.
That wall was my armor.
So I did something that surprised even me.
I paused.
I closed my laptop.
And instead of staying at the front of the room, I pulled up a chair and sat with them—literally and emotionally.
I didn’t have a new slide or a polished point. I just had a story—and a truth I hadn’t planned to share.
A night—just weeks earlier—when I sat awake in my hotel room, staring at the ceiling at 2:00 AM. Wondering if I was in over my head.
I was just over a year into the company. Still learning the culture, the context, the unspoken norms. Still figuring out what leadership looked like here.
And yet—my leadership team had trusted me.
They trusted me to help build something entirely new. A delivery center in a different country. A fresh start. A blueprint that didn’t fully exist yet. They saw potential in me, and they gave me the space to lead boldly.
But I hadn’t quite caught up to that version of myself yet.
I kept replaying conversations with senior leaders in my head, wondering if I was the right choice.
Wondering if they’d placed their trust in someone who might not deliver.
Wondering if I could actually build what I’d committed to—not just stand something up, but build it well. Build it in a way that would last. With integrity. With people who would thrive in it.
Could I carry this responsibility?
Could I lead across unfamiliar dynamics, support new managers, shape a delivery model, and meet the expectations that no one said out loud—but that hung in the air like pressure?
I wasn’t scared of the work.
I was scared of not living up to the trust I’d been given.
Scared of letting people down—above and around me, but most of all, the ones who were about to put their faith in me.
And I told them I was still figuring it out—just like they were.
And in that moment, the room changed.
Their shoulders softened. Their questions deepened. One asked about imposter syndrome. Another about giving feedback when you’re afraid you’ll get it wrong. Someone quietly asked what to do when you’re leading people who seem more confident than you.
We didn’t finish the slides in that moment.
But we found something better: trust, honesty, and space to actually grow.
“You can’t get to courage without rumbling with vulnerability.”
That moment was the rumble.
It brought Dare to Lead to life for me in the most visceral, unplanned way.
I realized that leadership isn’t about being the person with the cleanest narrative or the most polished delivery.
Leaders are the ones who choose courage over comfort and show up real—because trust isn’t built through perfection, but in the moments when a leader goes first in vulnerability and says, "Me too."
I thought leadership meant being unshakable. But what they needed—what we all need—is someone who can stand in the mess with integrity, empathy, and presence.
It wasn’t weakness. It was the beginning of real connection.
And something shifted—not just in me, but in the room.
After that session, the energy changed.
Leaders who had been quiet started sharing more openly. They reached out afterward, not to ask about processes or tools—but to talk about people, doubts, and decisions they didn’t feel ready for. We started having real conversations—not just status updates, but leadership conversations—the kind that shape teams, not just deliverables.
Over the following weeks, that openness became part of our rhythm.
Leaders modeled vulnerability with their own teams, naming what they didn’t know, asking for input, and giving feedback with honesty and care. We created space for people to learn out loud. When challenges came (and they did), there was a foundation of trust we could stand on.
That single moment didn’t solve everything. But it set the tone.
And the tone became the culture.
We didn’t build the delivery center just by executing a plan.
We built it by showing up—imperfect, committed, and willing to lead each other forward.
And that foundation worked.
The Canada Delivery Center grew—quickly and sustainably. We built strong teams, earned client trust, and delivered results we were proud of. But more than that, we built a culture rooted in trust, honesty, and shared ownership.
Many of the leaders from that first cohort went on to lead larger teams, mentor others, and shape the next phase of our growth. And the ripple of that initial vulnerability?
That moment left a mark. It helped shape a culture where vulnerability wasn’t weakness—it was part of how we built trust. And that trust carried through, even as the center evolved and new leaders stepped in.
That’s the kind of success that lasts.
Since that day, I’ve changed how I show up—especially when I’m leading other leaders.
I still come prepared. But I also come open.
Since that day, I’ve carried a deeper awareness of what it means to “rumble with vulnerability,” as Brené Brown describes it. It’s not always easy—but I’ve learned that naming fear and doubt can be the start of real trust, not the end of credibility.
I share what I’ve learned—and what it cost me to learn it. I try to live my values not by reciting them but by practicing them, especially when it’s uncomfortable.
Because people don’t follow perfect leaders.
They follow honest ones.
“Trust is built in the smallest of moments. It’s earned not through heroic deeds, but through paying attention, listening, and gestures of genuine care and connection.”
If you’ve read Dare to Lead, what part of it changed the way you show up?
And if you haven’t—think back to a moment when you led without your armor on.
What happened? What did it make possible?
Let’s rumble with that.
