The Performance of Being Open

Why we curate our transparency and call it vulnerability.

I once worked with a colleague who was a master of performative humility. In their first few weeks at the company, they went on a “listening tour,” formally seeking feedback on projects we barely started. We all fell for it. We checked a box in our heads: This person is humble. This person is a learner.

But as time went on and actual stakes developed—as their mistakes began to have real consequences—the “open door” slammed shut. The brand they had built early on became a shield. Because they had told us they were open to feedback, they no longer had to be open to it.

The Virtue Credit

We live in an era that rewards the Loud Narrative. Whether it’s a startup founder like Elizabeth Holmes selling a vision of a “better world” while hiding a broken machine, or a corporation touting DEI values that evaporate the moment the political winds change, we are trained to believe what is shouted.

My Gen Z brother has given me a glimpse into the conflicted relationship his generation has with this. They are masters of the medium; they utilize performativeness better than anyone on social media, yet they are the most cynical—the first to call something “performative” before other generations even see the cracks. They know the game because they live in it.

Society, at large, is “narrative-lazy.” If a company puts “Radical Transparency” in its corporate values, we stop looking for the secrets. We mistake the performance of a value for the practice of it.

I’ve been looking into the Johari Window, a framework used to map out how we interact with others:

In a healthy relationship, the goal is to expand the Arena—the space where things are known to both ourselves and others. But performativeness hacks this system. My colleague used his early “openness” to create a massive, artificial Arena. He flooded that space with low-stakes honesty so that no one would think to look into the Facade.

The Controlled Burn

I’ve realized I have been doing the exact same thing on this Substack. I’ve written about my shame of sweaty palms, and the societal problem of male loneliness. I thought I was being brave. But recently, I went through something that required me to actually depend on another person, to spill emotions that weren’t “essay-ready.”

In that moment, I found myself thoroughly lacking. I realized my “vulnerability” was a controlled burn. My controlled burns are the tactical diversions I use to protect my Facade. I show you a fire I have already mastered so you don’t look for the one still raging in private. If I tell you my secrets on my terms, I control the narrative. I am performing the act of being seen to ensure that I am never actually known.

The Processed Truth

A month ago, Kenny (my co-host in men’s listening circles) and I were discussing our work. When he listened to me talk about the male loneliness epidemic as a grand crisis, he asked:

“I’m curious what makes it overwhelming for you... How does this affect you personally? It feels abstract at the societal level.”

I gave him a social justice angle, arguing that solving this was simply “the right thing to do.” I meant every word I said, but that was the processed feeling I had already intellectualized. I was using a noble concept to avoid the raw feelings that I wasn’t yet ready to face. He invited me into sharing, and I instinctively scurried back into the Facade.

When I asked another friend who he opens up to, his response was: “usually friend, but I digest it so I can communicate better.” Even in our attempts to be open, we are “digesting” the ugly parts of ourselves into something palatable before we let anyone see them. We aren’t sharing the mess; we’re sharing a polished report.

The Survival Script

This instinct to perform self-sufficiency is an outdated operating system. I was raised to not rely on others and only trust myself. In high school, I learned that depending on family or authority figures wasn’t a viable option. On multiple occasions, my family tried to control my decisions by threatening to withhold my inheritance.

I developed an ardent, hyper-independence as a survival mechanism. I figured if I was never dependent on them, I would never have to concede to their demands. At the time, that “v.1.0 software” saved me. Today, it’s a communication bottleneck.

I’ve for years been proud of my ability to pack my bags and move to a different country on a whim. I called it courage. But now I wonder if that courage was actually a form of cowardice—a way to flee dependency on my relationships in one city.

Another friend, Ming, recently pointed out the “blocker” she felt in me. She noted that while I talk about these things, there is a fear of the “inner freedom” that comes from truly leaning into connections. She admitted her own “fear being dependent on people,” and it hit me: I have also been curating a life where I never have to face that fear.

I’m looking inward and finding a performer. This essay is not a cry for help; I am mentally fulfilled and simply exploring ways to grow. But then... was that also a facade I tell myself? Maybe it’s impossible to know.

Are there cases in your life where you think you might be performing, and masking an underlying inadequacy?