“It never ceases to amaze me: we all love ourselves more than other people, but care more about their opinion than our own.”

This was written by Roman emperor and philosopher Marcus Aurelius some 2,000 years ago, and yet it could have been written this morning. Let’s be honest, most of us spend way too much time in our heads wondering what other people think of us. “Do I look confident enough?” “Do I sound smart?” “Did anyone notice that awkward thing I just said?” (Answer: Probably not, but your brain insists they did.)

That self-conscious voice starts early. If you grew up with siblings, you might remember how parents and relatives hand out little “titles” without realizing it: the smart one, the funny one, the athletic one, the lazy one. Maybe you were “the responsible oldest,” or the “attention-seeking middle child,” or the “spoiled youngest.” Those labels stick, and before we know it, they don’t just shape how others see us; they shape how we see ourselves. Some labels we try to shake off, while others we protect as if our lives depend on them. That’s where ego walks in.

Seeking Perfection

Ego usually gets a bad reputation, but it’s not all bad. Think of it as your personal public relations manager, working behind the scenes, trying to make you look good, polishing your image and making sure you don’t embarrass yourself. However, sometimes that public-relations  manager can be overzealous. It starts running the whole operation, pushing you to act less like a human being and more like a brand.

That was me for a brief part of my career. I wasn’t trying to sabotage anyone. I was just trying to protect how others might see me. “I’m a leader in the U.S. Army. I’m supposed to know more, do more, be more.” If I wasn’t the smartest, the most confident or the most physically fit, then what kind of leader was I?

So, I clung to this idea of perfection. I never expected it from my people, but I convinced myself they expected it from me. The truth was, I wasn’t willing to be vulnerable, because in my mind, vulnerability meant weakness, and weakness had no place in leadership. In hindsight, my refusal to be vulnerable wasn’t strength; it was a barrier, one that leadership research has repeatedly warned against.

Researcher Brené Brown’s study of vulnerability confirms this notion. People don’t connect with perfect leaders; they connect with real ones. Vulnerability, she asserts, is the birthplace of trust and connection, which means my efforts to look flawless were probably building walls not bridges.

Protecting the Image

Here’s the thing: I’ve always been quiet and reserved. When I did speak, I usually had rehearsed the words 47 times in my head before they came out. To me, it felt cautious. To others, it came across as thoughtful and wise. That said, my rare comments carried weight, and the more people saw me as intelligent or insightful, the more I felt I had to protect that image.

But I wasn’t perfect. Not even close.

For a brief time, I didn’t prioritize my physical fitness. Army leaders are expected to embody the “whole soldier” concept—being proficient and well-rounded in all areas of personal and professional health and skills—and here I was dodging physical training (PT) sessions with my soldiers. I told myself they wouldn’t notice or care if I skipped. Truth: I didn’t want them to see me struggle. Yes, I could pass the fitness tests, but I wasn’t crushing them. My ego’s public relations manager whispered, “If they see you struggle, you’ll lose credibility.” So, I avoided showing up.

Ironically, psychology has proven what I was living out: that leader perfectionism can be a double-edged sword. On the surface, it may inspire passion and drive, but it often creates pressure that undermines performance and well-being. In my case, the pressure to appear flawless didn’t elevate me; it isolated me. By trying to look perfect, I robbed my soldiers of what they actually needed: a present leader who showed up in the trenches, flaws and all.

And I know I’m not alone in this. Leaders everywhere, military or not, find subtle ways to hide from vulnerability. Some avoid giving briefings because they’re afraid of not having all the answers. Others steer clear of tough conversations because they don’t want to risk saying the wrong thing. Some micromanage, not because they don’t trust their teams, but because letting go means admitting they are not in control of everything. These evasions may look different on the surface, but the root cause is the same: fear of being exposed as less than perfect.

Lessons Learned

Looking back, it wasn’t just about missing PT. It was about missing the small, everyday moments that matter more than we think: shared laughter during a tough workout, the quiet encouragement that comes when you see your leader sweating beside you, even the unspoken message: “I’m here with you. You’re not alone in this.”

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my absence spoke louder than words.

And what my absence said was: “My image matters more than your experience.” That wasn’t the leader I wanted to be.

Army doctrine reinforces this truth. Army Doctrine Publication (ADP) 6-22: Army Leadership and the Profession, defines presence as more than being seen. It’s how leaders carry themselves, project authenticity and share in hardships. Soldiers quickly recognize when leaders are performing an image rather than walking the talk. By skipping PT, I wasn’t protecting credibility. I was eroding it. In trying to look perfect, I failed to embody the presence my soldiers deserved. I didn’t fully learn that lesson until I left the unit. At my next assignment, I made a sharp pivot: no hiding, just show up.

Showing Up Imperfectly

So, there I was, back in formation, running with my new team. Within 15 minutes, my lungs were filing a formal complaint. By mile three, I was dead last. Not kind of last. Not close to last. But dead last. I remember thinking, “Well, that’s it. Three weeks in, and my credibility is gone. My soldiers now know I suck at PT.”

And then, something unexpected happened. After the run, one of my soldiers, a tall, athletic kid with the kind of smile that makes you like him immediately, walked up to me. “Hey, sergeant,” he said, “you did an awesome job. Most people who run that route for the first time don’t finish; they just end up walking. But you kept going.”

That one comment floored me. He didn’t care that I wasn’t first. He cared that I didn’t quit. That small exchange rewired something in me.

From then on, my approach was simple: just show up. If I mess up, I mess up. If I finish last, I finish last. But at least I’m there, shoulder to shoulder with my soldiers.

Showing up imperfectly didn’t just change my mindset. It changed my results. Over time, I improved (crazy, right?). I improved so much, in fact, that my first sergeant selected me to attend the Army’s Master Fitness Trainer course. That experience not only deepened my knowledge but helped my team achieve the highest PT average in the brigade. More importantly, it built something greater than numbers. It formed a well-rounded, cohesive team that believed in pushing together, not posturing alone.

All of that started with a small act. I chose not to hide, even when I felt inadequate. I chose presence over perfection.

Flaws and All

Presence doesn’t mean perfection. It means participation. It means walking into the arena, even if you might stumble. It’s standing up in front of your team and saying, “Here I am, strengths, flaws and all.”

Soldiers don’t remember the day you crushed a fitness test. They remember the day you showed up when it was hard, the day you didn’t quit, the day you admitted you didn’t have all the answers but were willing to figure it out together.

And isn’t that what leadership is supposed to be? Not the illusion of invulnerability, but the courage of authenticity. Not the pursuit of perfection, but the practice of presence. Because here’s the truth: people don’t need perfection. They need a leader who’s real, visible and willing to struggle in plain sight.

Chasing perfection often keeps us from showing up. And when it comes to leadership, showing up beats showing off every time.

Master Sgt. Albert Keever Jr., a senior NCO with 23 years of service, serves as the chief medical NCO for the 1st Infantry Division, Fort Riley, Kansas. Previously, he served as the first sergeant of Veterinary Readiness Activity, Fort Carson, Colorado. He deployed to Kuwait.