“What you resist, persists.” –Carl Jung
In a recent conversation with Kara Swisher, author Brené Brown discussed how, under stress, most of us instinctively resort to some sort of self-protection. Rather than acknowledging our fear, uncertainty, or sense of risk, we “armor up.” That armor can take many forms—anger, control, detachment, sarcasm, or blame—but the result is always the same: disconnection. Brown, in her new book Strong Ground, suggests a powerful exercise for understanding how we each respond when under pressure: ask someone we trust, “What am I like when I’m stressed? For example, do I lash out? Withdraw? Pretend everything’s fine? Degrade others?” The very act of asking this question is an act of vulnerability. It signals that we’re willing to see ourselves honestly and grow from what we learn.
Unfortunately, too many leaders today still lead from a place of armor rather than authenticity. Their self-protection shows up as demeaning projection—belittling others, deflecting blame, or creating fear to mask their own insecurities. Unfortunately, we have seen recent examples of this, with national figures lashing out when confronted by difficult questions. These moments aren’t just lapses in civility; they are windows into a leader’s fear of vulnerability. Brown reminds us that when we lead from fear rather than grounded courage, our armor becomes contagious. It spreads defensiveness, even cruelty, through teams, organizations, and nations.
Other leaders take a subtler path to armor. Some isolate themselves, avoiding difficult conversations or pretending problems don’t exist. Others shift blame or quietly let subordinates take the fall. These patterns are all too familiar in corporate America and government alike, where protecting one’s image often eclipses admitting the truth. But vulnerability—saying “I don’t know,” “I need help,” or “I was wrong”—is what builds trust. It’s what allows teams to move forward together, even in uncertainty. As Brown says, “You can’t get to courage without walking through vulnerability.”
By contrast, consider Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy. When news broke of a proposed U.S.–Russia peace plan formulated largely without Ukraine’s direct involvement, it would have been easy—and understandable—for him to react with outrage. Instead, he responded with composure and resolve, urging continued dialogue and reaffirming Ukraine’s commitment to a just, lasting peace. There were no angry denouncements, no public blame, no “armoring up.” His government expressed disappointment, yes, but did so without resorting to defensiveness or vitriol. In doing so, Zelenskyy demonstrated what Brown calls “strong back, soft front”—a posture of courage grounded in empathy. His leadership in this moment offered a masterclass in how vulnerability can coexist with strength: acknowledging frustration without letting it harden into hostility.
Brown’s challenge is for all of us to recognize our own armor. To pause when we feel triggered and ask: “What’s the story I’m telling myself right now? What am I protecting?” True leadership, in any situation, requires the courage to take the armor off. It means being grounded enough to say, “I’m struggling,” and strong enough to ask, “How do you see me when I’m under pressure?” Vulnerability isn’t a soft skill; it’s a hard practice. But as Strong Ground reminds us, it’s the only path to meaningful connection, resilient leadership, and lasting trust.