The workplace presents a distinctive set of disclosure dilemmas, beginning with the strange fan dance of interviewing. We are trying to put our best foot forward; to convince our potential employer we’re a perfect fit and consummate professional, yet we’re asked, “What are your weaknesses?” and “What are the biggest mistakes you’ve made?” Even the seemingly laidback “So, tell me about yourself” can feel like a trap. Where should we start?
There has been a lot of buzz in recent years about the benefits of “bringing your whole self” to work. There’s some evidence for those benefits. Letting others see more of you than you might ordinarily show them forges bonds, including in the workplace. We saw this in the early pandemic, when hardened leaders suddenly turned into endearing softies the moment their toddlers mischievously ran into their home offices.
But for compartmentalizers who prefer to keep work and personal life separate, the “bring your whole self to work” movement can be something of a nightmare. For others, like me, it’s freeing. But this new terrain is filled with land mines, and it can be hard to know when you’re going to step on one.
The question of how much of our authentic selves to share at work is a pivotal one. It’s also a difficult one to answer. We want to share enough to feel understood and connected to others, but not so much that we alienate people or cause them to question our competence or our seriousness.
Making matters even more complicated, each workplace has its own culture and its own norms about the degree of self-disclosure that’s deemed appropriate. That doesn’t mean they’re clearly articulated, usually far from it. We must discover them. And by no means should everyone decide to simply conform to those norms; bucking them might be good not only for one’s own happiness and engagement at work, but for the whole team and for society at large.
So how do we find the right balance? What are the trade-offs between being a little more open at work and keeping strict professional boundaries intact? How much “backstage access” can we give to our colleagues and our bosses without risking our workplace image?
Backstage versus Front Stage: transparency versus vulnerability
According to my colleague Monique Burns Thompson, who works closely with members of Gen Z, “Today’s generation craves a level of openness that is different from when I was a young professional.” New York University organizational scientist Julianna Pillemer’s research suggests that revealing aspects of our backstage selves at work, when done thoughtfully, can help us build rapport and stand out in a good way. In workplace contexts, she recommends what I’d call discerning authenticity—a balancing act that involves giving colleagues some, but not total, access to our inner lives. When done well, Pillemer argues, it helps build trust and sparks more meaningful conversations. Over time, this kind of thoughtful openness can deepen workplace relationships, enhance collaboration, and even improve performance.
What does it mean to be discerningly authentic—to be open in a thoughtful way? Pillemer specifies two types of backstage access. The first, which she calls transparency, involves “conveying openness” by giving people a window into your thoughts, beliefs, or preferences. For example, you might say, “I’ve always been more drawn to the creative side of things, even though I’m technically in a data-heavy role.” This kind of sharing can carry some risk—especially if your perspective is unpopular or unexpected—but it generally offers only a glimpse beneath the surface.
The second level of access, which Pillemer calls vulnerability, goes deeper and carries more risk. It involves “sharing potentially sensitive inner states such as intimate emotions,” especially negative ones—like admitting that you feel insecure about public speaking or disclosing a disability that might lead others to underestimate you.
For instance, someone might say, “I get nervous presenting in front of senior leadership, even when I know the material cold” (revealing a performance-related insecurity), or “This kind of ambiguity is tough for me. I like having more structure, and I’m trying to get more comfortable with the gray area” (revealing a trait that might not align with organizational norms).
One shortcut I find helpful is to think of transparency as cognitive openness and vulnerability as emotional openness. In contexts where impressions really matter, the line between transparency and vulnerability becomes a strategic one. Pillemer doesn’t draw a hard line, but she emphasizes that vulnerability is riskier—especially in high stakes, evaluative settings like job interviews, where disclosing insecurities might chip away at perceptions of competence. If in doubt, transparency is the safer bet.
Vulnerability should generally be avoided in those contexts unless, say, it’s framed as a story of growth or overcoming a challenge (“I used to struggle with public speaking, so I joined Toastmasters”). Even when you’re explicitly invited to share something personal—like in the dreaded “tell me about a weakness” question—transparency often does the trick. You might offer cognitive openness: “I think better in writing than I do speaking off the cuff.” You could also frame it as growth: “I’ve learned to prep more deliberately for meetings so I can articulate my ideas clearly in real time. But if you give me a moment to organize my thoughts, I’ll always bring sharper insight.”
This kind of thoughtful disclosure lines up with what Pillemer would call transparency: revealing how your mind works in a way that’s candid but not risky. Vulnerability, by contrast, might involve admitting that you often doubt your abilities or fear being judged—disclosures that could raise red flags unless carefully framed. Still, even in high-stakes settings, being a bit more open can help.
From Revealing: The Underrated Power of Oversharing by Leslie John published on February 24, 2026 by Riverhead Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2026 by Leslie John