I've often claimed to be an open book, readily declaring,
"No, not at all, ask away, I'm an open book." It's one of those phrases that I seem to find myself often saying. Alongside "Nice one," "Crack On," "I don't drink," and "Tidying your bedroom is your task, not mine."
Each of these phrases weave like threads in the tapestry of how I see my identity. Northern, diligent, sober, solo parenting. They all mean something.
For as long as I can remember, I've considered myself an open book, finding it difficult not to share honestly. It of course has been exploited. At other times created momentous change in relations, from sadness to joy, loss to hope, impossible to possible. Endings. New beginnings.
To me, one of the most precious gifts we can offer others is our hard-earned wisdom. If we can help others grow and spare them the pain of our past mistakes, why wouldn't we? Isn't standing on the shoulders of giants because we building upon the gains from others actions, decisions and knowledge?
Yet, something intriguing happens when I share personal stories and experiences with an audience, as opposed to engaging in one-on-one conversations. Whether it's in a larger meeting, on a stage, or as I'm beginning to discover, on the written page, I become more cautious, measured, and deliberate in my words.
There's a peculiar dichotomy at play here. While I perceive myself as an open book, I've always been fiercely protective of maintaining a separation between my ‘personal’ life and my 'work' life.
However, when I created Be Braver, a philosophy, practice and mindset as much as it my actual business, I found my work and personal identity began to merge. Learning to Be Braver and understanding what it is to be quietly courageous is both a lens and practice through which I view the world. Guiding how I feel, act, think. How I make sense of it all. Wherever the circumstances demand it I draw upon courage.
My operating model, if you will, is the Be Braver mindset—a life lived with quiet courage. Naturally, as it becomes an integral part of who I am, it influences every aspect of my life, personal and professional alike.
So, why is it that sharing stories of courage and bravery with a broader audience feels more challenging than in a private conversation?
I suspect it's because I hold the belief that wider audiences seek research, data, and ideas from figures with more authority or profile than myself. Perhaps I doubt whether my personal testimony or the research I've conducted through Be Braver holds the same weight with ‘professional’ audiences as it does with those who come to me personally.
Conventional wisdom tells me that to succeed and generate a living, I must define and target a specific audience. Yet, the chorus of experts telling me what I don't know and what I'm doing wrong suggests that so called definitions of success may always elude me. Unless I niche. They question my bravery for not following the prescribed path, adopting their tried and tested approaches, overlooking the nuances of courage, privilege, and risk with which I am so familiar with.
But, like the merging of my work and personal identity, perhaps I'm no longer interested in seeing the world in such divided terms — work persona versus personal persona.
Until someone asks me, "Caroline, what does success look like and mean to you?" I do fail to understand how they can know their approaches will achieve my ambitions.
In the language of traditional marketing, I ought to ask whether I'm addressing a B2B (business to business) audience or a B2C (business to consumer) audience. Do B2B audiences seek more reassurance for risk-based investment decisions based on robust data, while B2C audiences align more with values, vision, and purpose?
Could this be why I hesitate to share my tales of courage and bravery? I believe I lack authority in the eyes of others. For the confidence gap lies not in the difference between what we think of our abilities and what they are in reality. It lies in the difference between how others perceive us and how we think about ourselves. Perception is everything. We need to be able appropriately apprise ourselves - the balance of others and our own understandings.
Amidst the desire to connect and build bonds with clients, I'd likely share my anxieties about my ability to write, in one-on-one conversations. How terrifying I find it and all the reasons why. Of which there are many. Sharing this would be my way of signalling to them that they can trust me because I trust them. It's about forming reciprocal relationships, fostering trust, and building connections.
But putting thoughts, feelings, and emotions into written or typed words presents a unique challenge. Presenting them in front of stages with audiences with recording mobile phones. It transforms transient thoughts into something permanent and shareable.
In a world where not everyone could read or write, society enjoyed sitting round the campfires with gossip and retelling of others' stories. We’ve always made sense, created community and learned, in our telling of tales.
However, scaling and making things permanent in todays world brings elevated emotional exposure. There's uncertainty about where and how your thoughts, ideas, and stories will be shared, and the risk lies in the responses. This is vulnerability, defined by emotional exposure, uncertainty, and risk, the conditions inherently linked to courage.
Vulnerability has a myriad definitions, depending on the context or field of study, be it leadership research, social sciences, or various other branches of science and technology. In my work, I see vulnerability as the willingness to be transparent and emotionally exposed in a relationship with another individual or group, with the possibility of being hurt or attacked, whether that might be psychologically or physically.
And as a woman, I know that we are at a greater risk of both, because of our gender. It's just the reality of our existence, which is why it is my thesis that the very definition of courage is being a woman. We need to transform how society understands this universal truth and return our instinctive understanding of courage to women and away from the physicality of battlefields.
Vulnerability is a foundational component for building trust between leaders and their followers, as exemplified by figures like Emmeline Pankhurst. It's considered the bedrock of human communication and connection, the very reason many of us do write. It's a delicate dance between the possibility of exposing oneself to attack and the opportunity for deeper human connection.
Brene Brown has famously stated that vulnerability is the best measure of courage. If vulnerability is indeed a measure of courage, it must also serve a purpose and intent, for we don't choose courage in a vacuum. It exists in service of something, whether that's a moral, ethical, or social goal, or to achieve an ambition or dream.