Have you ever noticed how a leader’s insecurity doesn’t just stay quiet and internal? It doesn’t journal itself out, drink some herbal tea, and call it a day. Nope. Insecurity has a way of sneaking into staff meetings, derailing good ideas, and walking around the office like it just knighted itself ‘Most Valuable Team Member.’
It’s subtle, sometimes. A weirdly defensive email. A refusal to delegate. That unsettling feeling like everyone’s being watched just a little too closely. Other times, it’s loud: a leader who can’t handle being questioned, who takes everything personally, who builds a culture more out of fear than trust.
The Bill Lumbergh type. You know—the passive-aggressive boss from Office Space who makes you work weekends while sipping his coffee and pretending it’s no big deal. Smiling on the outside, seething on the inside. Delivering condescension like it’s corporate policy.
“Yeah… I’m gonna need you to go ahead and work this weekend.”
Not because the project matters. Not because it’s urgent. But because control feels safer than trust.
And here’s the kicker. It’s not always obvious at first. Some insecure leaders are very charming. They smile. They present well—especially to clients, higher-ups, or anyone they need to impress. But underneath all the polish is a person who’s scared. Scared of being found out. Scared of failing. Scared of not being enough. And the people who work closest to them? They feel that fear most of all.
I know this because I’ve seen it up close. I’ve worked under it. And I’ve been it.
Yep. Hi, it’s me. 🙋♀️ I’ve led while scared out of my mind, hoping nobody noticed. I’ve micromanaged not because I didn’t trust the other person, but because I didn’t trust myself. I’ve said yes to too much, not to serve, but to prove. I’ve withheld feedback because I was afraid of not being liked. And I’ve talked around hard truths because I didn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable—mostly me.
And it never works, does it? Fear might get compliance, but it never builds trust. Fear keeps things quiet, but never makes people feel heard. Fear can produce results for a little while. But it doesn’t build a healthy culture. It builds tension. It builds burnout. And eventually, it builds turnover.
That’s when I started really asking myself: What kind of culture am I creating? Is it one where people breathe easier when I enter the room—or one where they brace a little?
I’ve studied John Maxwell’s Law of the Lid over and over. The idea is simple: the team can only rise as high as the leader allows. If I’m holding the lid down by micromanaging, by being afraid to delegate, by low-key craving the credit, then I am the cap. I’m the ceiling.
And ceilings are boring. No one dreams about being a ceiling.
Several years ago, my friend Erik Cooper from The Stone Table said something that hit me right between the eyes:
“Our insecurities don’t just make us weak leaders, they make us dangerous leaders.”
Read that again.
Because the truth is, when you’re leading from insecurity, you’re not just limiting yourself. You’re shaping the entire emotional ecosystem around you. Insecure leaders create anxious teams. Micromanaged teams don’t innovate. Fearful cultures don’t flourish. They burn out. They check out. Or they quietly slip out the door and go somewhere that feels safer.
I once worked with someone who was so insecure in their leadership that every staff meeting felt like walking through a minefield. You never knew if your idea (or you yourself) would be praised or picked apart. You could have a brilliant solution, but if it came from the wrong person—or made them feel threatened—it vanished into the ether or blew up like Chernobyl.
People started faking enthusiasm just enough to stay under the radar. They didn’t challenge anything. They didn’t bring their full selves. They just smiled, did what was expected, and tried not to get singled out for “not being a team player.” People stopped bringing ideas. They stopped talking. And eventually, they stopped trying.
It wasn’t laziness. It was emotional self-preservation. And in cultures shaped by fear instead of trust, that’s what people learn to do—look busy, say the right things, and keep their real thoughts to themselves.
When I was back in those staff meetings, I remember thinking, “This isn’t just annoying. This is exhausting.” You start to question yourself. Not because you’re incapable, but because the culture whispers, “Play small. Don’t ruffle feathers.”
But here’s the hard part. At some point, I realized I was doing the very thing I hated. Different context, different tone, same pattern. I wasn’t trusting my team because I didn’t trust myself. I was bracing for failure. For someone to call me out. For everything to fall apart. I didn’t want to be a bad leader, so I clutched tighter. Which, ironically, made me worse.
What I’ve come to understand is that being secure in leadership doesn’t mean you’re fearless. It means you’re honest. It means you know your value—and you don’t need to squeeze it out of other people’s approval.
Being secure doesn’t mean you’re the smartest person in the room. It means you’re willing to not be. It means you ask good questions. You celebrate wins that aren’t your own. You build spaces where people can grow without fear that their growth will shrink your spotlight. It’s vulnerable. And it’s powerful.
Actually, vulnerability is one of the most courageous things you can offer.
But that takes intention. You don’t drift into security. You choose it. You check in with yourself. You do the internal work to recognize when you’re leading from a wound instead of a whole place.
Sometimes that looks like therapy.
Sometimes it looks like rest.
Sometimes it looks like apologizing for getting it wrong and committing to do better.
One of the most transformative moments in my leadership came when I owned a mistake in front of my team. I had let something slide that mattered to them, and I knew it. I could’ve blamed it on being busy. I could’ve wrapped it in a vague email and moved on. But instead, I stood there, looked them in the eyes, and said, “You’re right. I missed it. And I want to be better.” You could feel the shift in the room. Not because I was perfect. But because I was honest.
You can’t fake security.
You can fake confidence.
You can fake competence.
But people know when you’re leading from fear.
They may not be able to name it, but they can feel it.
And this isn’t just for people with titles or teams. If people look to you—your voice, your presence, your reactions—you’re shaping a culture. Every family, every classroom, every team dinner, and group text has a culture. The question is: Are we creating safety or scarcity? And if I’m being real, that’s why I believe no leader should do this work alone.
Because when you’re caught in the weeds of your own inner spiral—trying to hit goals, show up for your people, keep up appearances, and quiet that little voice that says “You’re not cut out for this”—you need someone in your corner. Not just a podcast or a leadership book, but a person. A trusted voice. Someone who knows what it’s like to lead people, wrestle with impostor syndrome, and still show up anyway.
I think every leader needs what I call “bench friends.”
You know the ones. The people you sit with on the metaphorical bench after a hard meeting, a strange staff interaction, or one of those days when everything feels heavier than it should. They’re not impressed by your title. They’re not intimidated by your resume. They’re not afraid to say, “Hey, I love you—but that decision didn’t land well.” They tell you the truth, not to tear you down, but to build you better.
Some of my most formative leadership growth didn’t happen in a conference breakout session or a classroom. It happened in text threads and phone calls with mentors and friends who were just a few steps ahead of me.
The ones who could say:
“You’re not crazy for feeling that way. Here’s how I handled something similar.”
“I know you want to fix that situation—but is it yours to fix?”
Mentorship doesn’t have to be some formal arrangement with monthly calendar invites and color-coded agendas.
It can start with a question:
“Can I run something by you?”
“Have you ever dealt with this?”
“Can I be honest about where I’m stuck right now?”
And the beautiful thing is, it’s not just about getting advice. It’s about not carrying the whole weight alone. Because leadership can feel isolating. People look to you for vision and clarity and direction, and if you’re not careful, you’ll start believing you have to have it all together all the time. Spoiler alert: you don’t. You just need safe spaces to be messy so you can lead with clarity instead of chaos.
So, if you don’t already have those trusted people in your leadership life—start small. Look around. Is there someone you respect who leads with both courage and kindness? Ask them to coffee. Be honest about what you’re hoping to learn. Share where you’re feeling stuck. Watch what happens when you stop pretending and start connecting.
And if you’re someone who is a few steps ahead, look around, too. Who needs your presence more than your perfection? Who needs you to say, “It’s okay to not know, and I’m here while you figure it out”?
Because leaders who grow leaders are the ones who leave legacies.
Not by building empires. But by building people.
So today I’m asking myself—and maybe you too:
- Am I leading from security or fear?
- Am I reacting or responding?
- Am I trying to prove my worth or reflect it?
Because I want to be a leader who gives life.
A culture-builder, not a culture-drainer.
And that starts inside me.
It starts in how I talk to myself.
In what I model for my team.
In the tone I use when I offer correction.
In whether I hoard credit or give it away like candy on Halloween.
In how I show up, not just when everything is going well, but when it’s hard and uncomfortable and disappointing.
I want to be the kind of leader people feel safe around. The kind who celebrates growth, even when it outpaces my own. The kind who creates space, not competition. The kind who leads from a place of enoughness, even on the days I feel like a mess.
Because let’s be honest—some days, leadership feels less like empowering a team and more like trying not to lose it when the printer jams for the fifth time. And yes, sometimes you want to go full Office Space and take the copier to a field and introduce it to a baseball bat. But that’s not leadership. That’s burnout in disguise.
What matters is where you lead from. Fear will always be in the car. You just don’t have to let it drive.
Here’s to the kind of leadership that leaves people better.
The kind that pauses before reacting.
The kind that is willing to listen.
The kind that isn’t afraid to say, “I don’t know,” followed by, “Let’s figure it out together.”
Here’s to leaders who aren’t ceilings—but launchpads.
Messy. Honest. Life-giving.
That’s the kind of leader I want to be.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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