What I think about vulnerability (And what a whole generation of men might think too)

My take on vulnerability probably reflects the mindset of an entire generation of men. Maybe it’s outdated now—but I don’t think our generation can unlearn this: men aren’t supposed to have emotions. That’s just how it is. Or at least, they’re not supposed to show weakness. They’re not supposed to be vulnerable.

I honestly can’t recall exactly how this belief took shape in me, but it must have started in childhood. Songs, movies, school, friends, it came from everywhere. I’m not saying Hungary in the ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s was Sparta, but it was definitely a tougher place than today. As the old P. Mobil song goes: “I walk on the other side of the street, with hard stone where my heart should be.”

When, for example, a two-meter-tall teacher tells 10 or 12-year-old kids he’d happily line them up and shoot them with a machine gun, then slaps one of them so hard he fly halfway across the classroom, well, in a P.Howard novel, that might sound funny. In real life, it just hardens you. Or take high school initiations. Alongside the silly games, there were beatings. All the boys lined up for it. If you didn’t complain, you were a man. If you cried or whimpered, you weren’t.

Or that summer job, 40 degrees, sun blazing, demolishing buildings and cleaning old bricks and if you dared take a break in the shade, someone would yell: “What, you that soft? Get your ass back to work!” And you’d go. A little more emotionally armored each time.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not here to complain. I don’t resent any of it. I am, in part, who I am today because of these experiences. And I’m 100% sure that every Gen X man has a dozen stories just like these.

Of course, girls could be weak. In fact, it was kind of expected. Their fragility wasn’t a flaw; it was part of their charm. When a girl cried, everyone felt for her. If she was shy or withdrawn, she was considered sensitive, gentle, feminine. The same behaviors that were labeled “soft” or “whiny” in boys were seen kind of positive in girls. They were allowed deeper emotional responses. We boys didn’t even know how to access that.

So, in the end, there were two sets of rules. Everyone carried their own cross. Looking back now, aware of the biases and stereotypes, I think the boys actually had it easier. The girls were trapped. Because here’s the thing: a leader can’t be weak. Honestly, I still believe that. The expectation is that a leader solves problems. And how could anyone solve hard problems if they’re led by their emotions? Exactly. I think that’s why many people still believe women aren’t suited for leadership. Which, of course, is completely wrong. There are tough women and emotional men. And yes, emotions do have a place in leadership: empathy, presence, even vulnerability can be powerful tools.

But here’s my truth: I lead authentically, but not emotionally. I was shaped by a culture where showing feelings was seen as weakness and somewhere deep down, that belief still lingers. Even today, I often feel I can’t afford to show emotional reactions in difficult situations. Not because I want to be fake, but because I’m afraid it would be seen as losing control. That if I show a crack, someone might use it against me.

So while I deeply believe in emotional intelligence, I still carry the instinct to “hold the line.” And I know I’m not the only one.

So, I believe that as a leader, I can’t afford the luxury of being vulnerable. If people see my weak spots (not that I have any, of course), someone might use them against me. How can I expect my team to follow me if I collapse under pressure? How can I demand professionalism if I can’t make a tough decision?

That doesn’t mean a leader should be cold or unfeeling. But they can’t let emotions override their rational mind. I’ve made that mistake before. In a meeting, with my bosses present, a colleague and friend presented a report that clearly showed mistakes made by my team. I took it personally, felt blindsided, and blew up. We argued. I got personal. It wasn’t professional. I didn’t seem solution-oriented. And I didn’t come out of that clash looking great.

That said, I do believe in failure. In falling. Everyone fails, eventually—and often. At least, I do. But there’s a huge difference between one kind of failure and another.

If I fail without giving my absolute all—physically, mentally—then that failure is shameful. It’s the worst kind of weakness. I can’t even look in the mirror afterward.

But if I’ve given everything I’ve got, and I still don’t succeed? Then I can own that failure with my head held high. It becomes fuel for the next attempt. And honestly, I often expect the same from others: to give everything. Not to make excuses. To keep going even when it’s hard.

I know it’s not always fair. Not everyone works this way. There are factors I might not see or understand. And I don’t want to put unreasonable pressure on anyone. But deep down, I feel that if I show up at 100%, I have the right to expect others to at least try. Not the outcome—that’s not the point—but the attitude.

And I tend to be hardest on those I see potential in. Those I know have more in them. Those who are talented but haven’t fully tapped into it, or don’t believe in themselves yet. They get the most from me: attention, expectations, and yes—sometimes pressure. Because I believe in them.

Maybe I set the bar too high sometimes. But for me, that’s a form of trust. Still, I try not to turn that into a burden for others. I know this is something I have to keep working on.

This mindset — my personal ars poetica — helps me reframe vulnerability not as failure, but as a form of learning. I still don’t believe I can afford full emotional exposure as a leader, but I do know this: no one can carry the weight of leadership entirely alone.

It’s not about putting all your weaknesses on display. But if there’s no one you can occasionally turn to and say, “This is hard”, then eventually the pressure will break you. And a burned-out, overloaded leader helps no one.

So, no—I don’t think the goal is to embrace vulnerability.

I think the goal is to have a space where you’re allowed to be fully human. So you can go back to the front line when it’s time.

Because in the end, that’s what we do as leaders.