Welcome to Issue 62 of A Good Reputation, a newsletter about how to tell a better story to build better brands. (Did someone send you? Subscribe here.) (Miss past issues? Read those here.)

Hello Reader,

“Oh wow. This is… ghastly,” I said, abandoning any attempt to be nice as I plucked what appeared to be a self-portrait of my boyfriend, Tyler, and his mother circa 1992.

“Hideous, isn’t it?” Tyler replied. “I hate it more than anything I’ve ever made.”

The drawing was in a pile of other non-essential odds and ends that made the cut in Tyler’s move from his tiny San Francisco city apartment to a slightly larger mid-century modern duplex that gives strong grandma vibes and has a charming backyard.

And because I know you’re probably wondering why we didn’t just move in together (so nosy), I’ll go ahead and tell you.

For starters, Tyler and I both have two girls each from our previous marriages. Their ages are 7, 8, 10, and soon-to-be 11. So the idea of four girls approaching tweenhood under one roof is simply too much for either of us to wrap our heads around right now. (Plus, neither of us can actually afford a place big enough to comfortably house the six of us.)

The second, perhaps bigger deal-breaker for living together, is that Tyler’s a hopeless pack rat and I’m a ruthless minimalist.

If he were moving into my house, this picture—this entire box—would’ve happily been sitting in the recycling bin waiting to be transformed into something new.

“Okay, so why are we keeping this thing?” I asked, getting ready to make an executive decision to toss it.

“Because,” he said, “it’s one of my most valuable teaching assets—especially for the second-graders.”

Tyler, if you hadn’t guessed, is an elementary school art teacher. For nearly 20 years, he’s had a hand in molding Marin, California’s next generation of creative thinkers.

But even though he leads with a philosophy and approach that, like anything, “You’re not born with artistic ability—you have to learn it,” every year, he still gets kids who give up before they even get started.

So when one of them inevitably reaches that place of self-loathing and disbelief that their art will “never be good enough,” or that they’ll never reach Tyler’s skill level (who is objectively very talented), he busts out this heinous self-portrait he made when he was 8.

The kids usually respond with a laugh and an audible exhale. Because this self-portrait—in all its failed effort—is a reminder that everyone has to start somewhere. That artistic ability, skill, and taste have to be developed and refined over years of continuous practice.

But beyond that reminder, the drawing serves as proof, inspiration, and a token of hope.

Proof that growth is real. Proof that taste evolves. Proof that skill is built, not bestowed.

If Tyler could go from colored-pencil scratches to work people pay to hang in their homes, then maybe growth is possible for them, too.

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll keep it.”

A Good Story

It’s often true that our ugliest artifacts are the clearest evidence of our becoming.

Which is why I found it interesting that “rejection” is trending right now.

From The New York Times covering a viral “rejections challenge” created by a 22-year-old TikToker to Substackers writing about their quests to rack up rejections without shame, Carmen Vicente claims there's a cultural shift happening.

Carmen, a social strategist whom I admire very much and am constantly learning from, pointed to all these examples as signals that polish is out and rejection is in because people are on a quest to create more friction in their lives.

But I don’t think it’s just about friction. I think it’s about trust.

We are exhausted by perfectly curated success. We’ve been sold highlight reels for over a decade. And in a world of AI-generated everything, perfection is becoming the anti-goal.

Rejection, on the other hand, feels human.

While I can’t speak to the need to introduce more friction into my life (divorce, four(ish) kids, running my own business), when it comes to connection, earning trust and storytelling, I can confidently say that openly talking about rejection—in its many forms—is nothing new.

Sharing your losses, struggles, mistakes, flaws, and setbacks has always been (and will always be) the basis of great storytelling and resonant character-building.

Pixar, the modern-day patron saint of storytelling, insists that the number one rule of great storytelling is that we admire a character more for trying than for their success.

And that’s because without a struggle (usually an internal one), we have no reason to care about a character.

Uncomplicated, perfect people are not only boring because we have nothing to learn from them, but they’re also entirely unrelatable. And increasingly, they're untrustworthy.

Think about it: Who do you know that’s completely flawless? (And if you’ve managed to think of someone, do you actually trust that person?)

If Tyler’s biggest struggle with his students is helping them believe they can improve, then my biggest struggle with students is convincing them that showing the improvement process isn’t just socially acceptable now—it’s strategically essential.

Because proof of growth builds trust far more effectively than performance of perfection.

And trust is the currency we’re all fighting to earn right now.

A Good Lesson

So, how do you share the rejection or mistake or loss or struggle or deep shame that makes you a relatable character we like and trust without eroding credibility?

I’m so glad you asked.

The first, most annoying piece of advice is this: “Share from the scar, not from the wound.” It's annoying because you've heard it before, but clichés are clichés for a reason.

The idea is that if you have enough distance from a painful or shameful event, and you can look at it with clear eyes and a new perspective, you can shape the full arc.

Here’s a simple way to structure it:

1. What I thought would happen.
2. What actually happened.
3. What it revealed about me.
4. What changed because of it.

That’s a story.

When shaped this way, it's not a confession or a diary entry, as much as it's evidence of your evolution.

If the answer to “what changed?” is nothing and “I’m just sad,” then it’s probably not ready to be shared. (And perhaps a good one to unpack with your therapist.)

But that also depends. Not every story needs a lesson. Some can just serve as a point of connection.

It also doesn't need to be a big change.

For example, I recently wrote about how I’m finally (most days) running the business I dreamed of—but it took a year of near-burnout to get here.

I’ve also written much harder, more personal stories about how my fear of loss led to a series of failed relationships and ended in a seven-year marriage that lacked true intimacy.

You don’t have to go there. Your edge of vulnerability might look very different from mine.

You can share something as simple as this from Christina, who publicly announced she was rejected from a literary magazine. Her lesson? She didn’t die.

From that little story—and that baby lesson—she's shaping perception about her character. She's demonstrating that she's resilient in the face of adversity. She’s upbeat. She can handle rejection.

You know—all the qualities people actually hire for.

There’s nothing to be ashamed of when you can show us how you handled something hard or embarrassing in a way that’s admirable.

A Good Takeaway

The number one thing I keep hearing from my storytelling students and clients is that the stories they’ve been most afraid to share are the ones that resonated the most with their audience.

I’ve experienced the same.

Because if something is scary or hard to admit publicly, then it was clearly meaningful to you. There are inherent stakes that make it interesting, and some humanity that the rest of us complicated, fallible humans can connect with.

By sharing your story, you’re giving us a mirror into ourselves and our deepest fears, anxieties, worries, and constant contradictions.

You’re also giving us that proof. Proof that growth is possible, failure isn’t fatal, and that becoming is messy.

And just like Tyler with his students, you become living evidence that if you could make that hideous self-portrait and improve, then we can too.

So show us that ugly early draft. Show us the rejected pitch.

Paint a picture for us of where you were and where you are now—even if you just learned the lesson yesterday.

Because the evidence of becoming is more persuasive than the image of having arrived.

And perfection is a pointless and impossible goal, anyway.

A Few Good Resources

1. ​I'm hosting an open house for New Narratives. Grab a hot seat to get your most burning business challenge questions by a lovely, thoughtful group of peers.
2. ​This epically researched paper on the state of trust in B2B is worth a read. (I'm quoted!)
3. ​Want to get quoted? This website is great for finding press and podcasting opportunities.

Hope you have a good one,
Renee