When the Mask Gets Too Heavy
Here’s the thing about leading: there’s this unspoken expectation that you’ve got to have it all together. Unwavering faith, unlimited wisdom, and never a moment of doubt or struggle.
But what happens when you don’t? What happens when the weight of maintaining that image becomes crushing?
I’m learning—slowly, painfully—that real spiritual strength isn’t about having perfect faith. It’s about being honest enough to admit when you’re barely holding on.
And that requires vulnerability.
Vulnerability isn’t weakness, though it sure feels like it sometimes. It’s the raw honesty of saying “I don’t have all the answers” when everyone expects you to. It’s admitting “I’m struggling” when you’re supposed to be the strong one.
When Weakness Is All You Have Left
There’s a verse I keep coming back to, especially on the hard days. A power verse—that passage of Scripture you cling to when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.
Mine is 2 Corinthians 12:10:
“That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”
I’ll be honest—I don’t always delight in my weaknesses. Most days I just feel them. The inadequacy. The exhaustion. The moments when I wonder if I’m even cut out for this.
But Paul understood something I’m still trying to grasp: vulnerability isn’t a leadership failure. It’s just… reality. He didn’t hide his struggles because he couldn’t. And maybe in that honesty, he found something I’m searching for—the strange comfort that God’s strength shows up most clearly when ours runs out.
When you have nothing left to offer but your need for God, at least it’s honest.
“When I am weak, then I am strong.” (2 Corinthians 12:10)
Maybe your weakness isn’t disqualifying you. Maybe it’s just revealing how much you need Him.
Why Pretending Doesn’t Work Anymore
Trust isn’t built on perfection. I know that intellectually. But living it? That’s different.
When you act like you have everything figured out, people might look up to you. But they don’t really know you. And the lonelier you get, the harder it becomes to maintain the facade.
The truth is, I’m tired of pretending. Tired of crafting the right response when I’m falling apart inside. Tired of being the answer when I’m full of questions.
Jesus didn’t pretend. He wept. He grew weary. He prayed in anguish, asking if there was any other way. His vulnerability didn’t make Him less divine—it made Him real. And somehow, in all that honest struggle, He remained obedient.
I don’t know how to do that yet. But maybe admitting I don’t is the first step.
When Leading Feels More Isolating Than Connecting
Here’s what nobody tells you: intimacy—with God, with others—requires a level of honesty that feels terrifying.
You can’t draw closer to God by pretending everything’s fine. But admitting it’s not? That means letting the walls down. That means risking judgment, disappointment, or the loss of respect you’ve worked so hard to maintain.
When leaders are vulnerable, it’s supposed to create space for others to be real, too. In theory, everyone stops performing and starts being honest. The ministry becomes family instead of production.
But sometimes it just feels like you’re the only one bleeding while everyone else still has their armor on.
Still, maybe that’s when authentic community begins—not when it’s comfortable, but when someone finally has the courage to say “I’m not okay” and mean it.
Maybe leading isn’t about having it all together. Maybe it’s just about showing up, even when you’re broken.
The Cost of Leading Without Pretending
Vulnerability takes courage. But it also takes something else—willingness to be seen as less than what people need you to be.
Stepping out from behind your title and your platform means people see the cracks. They see the doubt. They see that you’re just as lost as they are sometimes.
And that’s terrifying.
But here’s what I’m discovering: people don’t need a flawless leader. They need a real one. They need someone who admits they’re struggling and still shows up. Someone whose faith is messy and honest and dependent on God because there’s no other option.
Brené Brown says:
“Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable, but they’re never weakness.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe this discomfort is what courage actually feels like—not confidence, but showing up anyway.
In the Kingdom of God, vulnerability isn’t a liability. At least that’s what I tell myself.
It’s supposed to remind people that grace is real. That God meets us in our need. That His strength is made perfect in our weakness.
But some days, it just feels like weakness. Like barely holding on. Like wondering if transparency is worth the cost.
Because here’s what they don’t tell you about being vulnerable in leadership: it’s expensive. Every time you admit you’re struggling, you risk someone losing confidence in you. Every time you share your doubt, you wonder if you’ve just disqualified yourself from the very ministry you’re called to. Every honest moment feels like handing people ammunition they could use against you later.
And yet—hiding feels worse. The exhaustion of maintaining the image. The isolation of carrying burdens alone. The slow death of pretending you’re fine when you’re coming apart at the seams.
I don’t have this figured out. I’m not leading from victory right now—I’m leading from the middle of the struggle. From a place where faith looks less like certainty and more like choosing to believe anyway.
Some days, that choice feels paper-thin. I read the Scriptures about God’s strength in weakness, and I believe them—I do. But belief doesn’t always remove the fear. It doesn’t always quiet the voice that says you’re failing. It doesn’t always make the weakness feel like anything other than just… weak.
I’m learning that there’s a difference between theological truth and lived experience. I can know that God is present in my weakness and still feel terribly alone in it. I can believe His grace is sufficient and still wish I didn’t need quite so much of it. I can trust that this struggle has purpose and still want it to be over.
Maybe that’s what vulnerability actually is—not having the answers, but being honest about the questions. Not pretending the struggle is easy, but admitting it’s hard and showing up anyway. Not leading from a place of arrival, but from a place of process.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough. Not because it feels sufficient, but because it’s real. And real is what people need, even when real is messy and unresolved and still very much in progress.
Mike Hamson 