Intense and real. I felt shame. They felt connection.

The other day, I was having lunch with a close friend. He's around my age, grounded, thoughtful, a good man.

He started telling me about a wedding he attended recently, how the bride had done something beautiful and unexpected to express her love. It wasn't just the story, it was how he told it.

As he spoke, tears welled up in his eyes.

The moment moved him, and he didn't hold back. The emotion came through his voice. He stayed with it.

And as I listened, I felt it too. My throat tightened. My eyes welled up. And I was glad he was the one talking, because I wouldn't have been able to speak through the wave that hit me.

It was unspoken, unplanned. Just... true.

There was no shame. No performance. No need to pull it together.

And nothing about that needed fixing.

That's the same feeling I've had in the middle of some of the most meaningful rooms I've ever facilitated, those moments when people are invited to share a story that's shaped them.

I also tell my story. Not a dramatic one. Not a tear-jerker. But it was raw. A moment I've carried.

And sometimes I choke up. Yep. In front of everyone.

It's not polished. But it's real.

And in that pause, something hits me in the gut: "Was that too much?"

Not because it was inappropriate. Not because it made others uncomfortable. But because I've been conditioned, even after all this work, all this growth, to question whether my own emotional intensity has a place in the room.

I'm not ashamed of being truthful. But I still wonder: Am I too much? Or just enough?

That's the hidden shame nobody talks about. It's not shame because you broke down. It's shame because you dared to show up powerful and vulnerable at the same time. And some part of you still thinks it made others squirm.

I coach powerful leaders every day who face this same trap—people with brilliant minds, sharp insight, deep drive.

And still, I get feedback like:

"He's so smart, but sometimes people feel steamrolled. There's no room for others." "She doesn't let people in. Everything is about the work, but never about the people."

These aren't critiques of competence. They're cries for connection.

But here's the twist: when these same leaders do show up with heart, when they share what's real, they walk away from the moment, second-guessing everything.

"Was I too emotional?" "Did I overshare?" "Did that make me look weak?"

No. It didn't. But shame tells you it did.

Let's get something straight:

Shame doesn't silence weakness. It silences power.

We're not ashamed because we were small. We're ashamed because we showed up big and worried it would make others uncomfortable, intimidated, or judge us as "too much."

So we apologize. We second-guess. We shrink.

That's the real cost of shame: Not that it shuts us down when we're low, but that it shrinks us when we're powerful.

To the leader still trying to look unshakable:

You know who you are. The ones who perform certainty. Who keep it together no matter what. Who think showing emotion weakens your authority.

You've rehearsed strength so much, you've forgotten what real strength looks like.

And it's costing you.

People are saying: "He doesn't listen, he just reacts." "She needs to create more space for others; she dominates the conversation."

Here's the truth: People don't trust you because you're in control. They trust you when you're human.

So stop pretending. You're not fooling anyone. Your team sees through it. We all do.

The truth is, you're the one who gets misty-eyed during a movie and suddenly coughs.

Or reaches for your phone.

Or pretends you're just tired.

Or throws in a joke to kill the silence.

You're the dad who turns away when your kid does something that wrecks you with pride. You're the partner who bites your cheek when a real "thank you" lands too deep.

You're the leader who feels the emotion rise, but buries it under professionalism.

If that emotion lives in you, then it's already real.

So stop hiding. Stop bullshitting yourself.

I'm not asking you to lose it in front of your team. But at the very least, stop faking that you don't feel.

Because you do. And honestly, we need to see that.

That's not weakness. That's strength and leadership with the armor off.

Vulnerability isn't a liability. Hiding is.

If you've got the guts to lead, then lead like someone who's not afraid to be seen.

I know this shame. I still catch it trying to dress up as humility, or professionalism, or care.

But it's not. It's fear, wrapped in an old story that says "don't be too much."

I'm done apologizing for intensity that comes from truth.

You're not too much. You're just unused to being fully seen.

Let that land.

And then step back into the room—not smaller, but clearer.

Until next time

Love 💙

Roberto

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