Welcome to Issue 30 of A Good Reputation, a newsletter about how to use storytelling to grow your brand. (Did someone send you? Subscribe here.)

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Hello Reader,

I remember the exact moment I realized my jeans no longer fit.

They were crumpled on the floor next to a bed I’d never slept in—thrown off in a heated moment with a perfect stranger I had only recently met on the internet.

I picked them up and pulled them on. I fastened the button and zipped the zipper. But instead of cinching around my waist, they fell to my hips.

Holding on to the belt loops, I shimmied them up. But again, they fell.

“My jeans don’t fit,” I said, perplexed.

“I can see that,” he said. “You’re tiny.”

If you’ve ever been through a breakup, you know that your diet is the first thing to go.

Either you eat all of your feelings or you eat nothing at all.

Two months before my internet encounter, I found out that I was separating from the father of my two children, husband of 7 years, and partner of 10. And for the first time in my life, I had no appetite.

I was starving. And I didn’t realize it until I put on those pants.

But I wasn’t just starving myself physically. I was starving for answers as to why my marriage had failed. I was starving for attention. For meaning. For things to make sense.

So, naturally, I did what anyone in the middle of a relationship crisis who had been monogamous since she was 22 years old would do:

I started dating—a lot. All of the people.

Thanks to the modern magic of dating apps, instant connection felt totally accessible. As a mom of two young kids entering her mid-30’s, I couldn’t believe how easy it was to find, choose, and go on a date.

Dating became my full-time hobby outside of getting a divorce.

After I was done shopping for my groceries on Instacart during the day, I’d shop for men on Hinge. Instead of scrolling social media after I put the babies to bed, I’d scroll Bumble.

At the time, I think I wanted to get a taste of what was ahead of me. To search for other possibilities.

Or maybe I just needed a distraction.

More than anything, I think I was looking for validation. I needed to know that I was someone people wanted to be with. And I needed to process what was happening out loud with anyone who would listen.

So, I went on one date, and then another.

Through the course of this men-of-San-Francisco exploration, I expected to have good dates and bad. To collect horror stories like my friends who had been dating for the past decade with no luck.

But something unexpected happened.

While I had some strange encounters and plenty of first dates without a follow-up, I can honestly say I didn’t have a bad date.

(And I don’t mean to imply that they all ended up like the night of the pants—that was an early exception.)

What I mean is that I felt a real, deep human connection with everyone I met.

Because for the first time in my life, I wasn't scared to open up. I had already lost the biggest thing I felt I had to lose at the time, leaving nothing left to fear.

So, I went into all these dates entirely as myself—cut wide open and completely exposed. I shared without reservation and received without judgment.

The result was a feeling of intimacy that can only come from being seen as you truly are.

A Good Question

This story, while more intimate than anything I’ve ever shared online, feels easier to tell now that I’m nearly 7 years removed from that version of myself and have some perspective.

I’m sharing it “from the scar, not the wound,” as everyone (including myself) has advised.

These hard-won lessons told from a distance are the ones we commonly see in business storytelling. And they make good stories because they allow us to share something tender, but detached.

We like these stories because they can be wrapped up neatly in a valuable takeaway to help us teach or inspire.

We consider these stories vulnerable and authentic. And we applaud ourselves for our courage and honesty.

But here’s the question I’ve been grappling with: Are these stories truly vulnerable?

To an extent, sure. But truly?

I don’t think so.

Why?

Because these stories are safe. And true vulnerability is risky.

By definition, vulnerability is the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.

At least…it can feel that way.

But how risky is it—really—to be completely exposed?

Should we always share from a distance to keep ourselves safe, or can we allow ourselves to be seen in the moment as we truly are—not as we once were or hope to be?

To help answer my own questions, I’ve been collecting examples and reaching out to founders who’ve shared from a place of uncertainty—not clarity and retrospective advice.

I’ve found people like Mariya DeLano, an established agency owner, who openly talked about her struggles with mental health and a borderline personality disorder diagnosis last year.

Or people like Jane Hyun, an executive leadership coach, who’s publicly navigating her grief over the loss of her parents and how it’s impacting her work.

Then there’s my friend Erica who revealed a weakness that—instead of damaging her credibility—led to an explosion of support and only made me, for one, love her more.

(I have plenty more examples, but I'll spare you.)

I reached out to all of these people and asked:

How’s business been since sharing this stuff that seems so deeply personal and complicated?

Business, they told me, has never been better.

A Good Takeaway

Becoming a better storyteller—one that emotionally resonates with your audience—means becoming comfortable with our discomfort around vulnerability. It's about seeing ourselves and facing our fears.

It took being in one of the most vulnerable places in my life to actually open up. It took a divorce to help me realize that, even though I think of myself as an open book, I was hiding behind my image and a false sense of bravery or courage.

But the truth is that I didn't allow myself to be vulnerable in my marriage (nor did he), and that’s one of the reasons it lacked real intimacy.

By allowing myself to be real—not perfectly put together—in my post-separation dates, I unlocked a whole new level of connection and intimacy with people I never realized was possible.

I unlocked the ability to connect by showing up in the most honest, authentic way possible.

But…I still haven’t crossed that line professionally—at least not online.

Even though all of my conversations with people who’ve put the mask down have confirmed that the risk of being truly vulnerable was worth taking in business, I’m still left with questions.

Do we have to be cut wide to let everything spill out?
What place does true vulnerability have in business?
And where is the line, if there is one?

We’re living in a world where we feel increasingly disconnected from everything that once grounded us: Community, friendships, family, spirituality—even (or especially) the truth.

It’s no wonder we feel immediately drawn to those who cast away the perfectly curated public facade and share something raw and real.

Ultimately, the line is personal. And how comfortable you feel sharing is up to you.

Showing up as we are is the scariest and hardest thing we can do. So, most of us won't bother.

But maybe the real risk isn’t in being vulnerable—it’s in never letting ourselves be truly seen.

I guess I just want to give us all permission to show up as we are, not as we wish we were.

Because in business, as in life, real connection starts there. And maybe, just maybe, we'll find that business has never been better.

A Few Good Resources

1. I love how my friend, Megan, approached this conversation on LinkedIn recently.
2. ​Did you see this? 25 people so far are interested. So, I'm doing. Reply here if you're interested.
3. Completely unrelated to business, but related to my story: This book changed my perspective on relationships. I'm now 5 years into the most beautiful one I've ever had.

Hope you have a good one,
Renee