Leaders often feel pressure to be the rock. Always steady, always in control, always the one who holds it together when everything around them is falling apart. Even when we’re not feeling it, the need to appear unfazed and instill confidence in the people around us almost always wins out.

I know this because I have been that guy my entire life.

I’m not wired to be emotional. I don’t linger in feelings or wear them on my sleeve, and I have never once been accused of being the most sensitive person in the room. (Understatement.) For a long time, I wore that like a badge of honor. It made me effective. It kept me focused. And honestly, the people around me seemed to appreciate having someone in their corner who wasn’t going to fall apart when things got hard.

But here’s the thing nobody tells you about being the rock: It costs you more than you realize.

I have spent the better part of 51 years in what I can only describe as a mode of self-preservation—and not because I don’t care about the people in my life. (I care deeply.) But there’s a significant difference between just caring about someone and actually letting them see that you care. For most of my life, I have been much more comfortable with the first part than the second.

There’s a scene from the TV show Friends that I always think about. Bruce Willis plays a very tough, stoic character who’s encouraged to open up emotionally. Once the floodgates crack open, he becomes completely unrecognizable—crying, oversharing, unable to stop. It played for laughs, but I’ll be honest with you, that scenario was a genuine concern of mine. What if there’s no healthy middle ground? What if 51 years of pent-up self-preservation comes rushing out, all at once, and nobody can find me under the pile? (My wife found this concern extremely entertaining, for what it’s worth.)

But here’s what I’ve come to understand: Vulnerability isn’t about becoming someone you’re not. It’s not about crying at commercials or narrating your every feeling out loud. For people like me, it looks a lot quieter than that. It’s sitting down and writing out what someone actually means to you instead of just assuming they know. It’s saying “I’m struggling with this,” instead of grinding through alone and pretending everything is fine. It’s telling the people on your team that their work matters, and actually meaning it, instead of just moving on to the next problem.

I think the reason so many driven, results-oriented people resist this kind of thing is that, somewhere along the way, we confused vulnerability with weakness. We think that letting our guard down, even for a moment, signals that we’re losing our edge. But the leaders I respect most—the ones who built not just successful companies but genuinely loyal teams and strong families—are the ones who figured out that being real with people isn’t a liability. It’s actually the whole thing.

Nobody follows the rock forever. They follow the person who they believe actually sees them, understands them, and cares about what happens to them. And you simply cannot communicate any of that from behind a wall.

If you’re someone who has spent years being the steady one, the reliable one, the one who doesn’t make it about feelings, I’m not suggesting you reinvent yourself overnight. I’m just asking you to consider what it might be costing you to stay exactly where you are.

The people in your life who matter most aren’t looking for perfect. They’re looking for real. And real, as it turns out, is something every one of us is actually capable of.

Even the rocks.