Years ago, I had the chance to work with Hillary Clinton. Yes, that Hillary Clinton—the woman whose every word was dissected, weaponized, or dismissed, depending on who was listening.
Over the years, two things struck me. First, she was always present. With all of the work and chaos in her life, her unimaginable to-do list, not to mention the people who wanted her time, when I presented to her she was there. She listened. She took notes and she asked great questions. Impressive. The second thing wasn’t the political machine, or the power in the room, but something quieter: the deliberate, almost surgical care she took with her voice. Every phrase mattered. Every pause carried weight. It wasn’t performance; it was precision born from knowing that her authenticity, the real Hillary Clinton, was both demanded and denied at the same time, so it deserved extra care.
But the horrible truth? I almost missed it.
At the time, I was ensnared by the enemies of my own authenticity. I didn’t believe I belonged in the room. I shrank inside myself, showing up not as me, but as a kind of eager, deferential presence—half-groveling, half-hungry for approval. Think supplicant energy dressed up in a nice outfit.
And my biggest regret is this: Hillary Clinton never got to meet the real me. She met my impostor self—the version that wanted to please more than it wanted to contribute.
Looking back, I wish I trusted myself, that I walked into the various rooms at ease and ready to share and connect. I wish I let Hillary and her team meet me—funny, pointed, sly, and insightful. Because she and her team deserved that. They always showed up fully, and behind the shadow-self I presented, I had sharp, original ideas worth sharing.
If the Rene of today had been in that room? Let’s just say—I might not have changed everything, but I could have nudged history.
It all cracked open something bigger for me. I realized that the greatest enemy of authenticity isn’t outside criticism—it’s the voices inside that whisper: you don’t belong here. You are kidding yourself. Don’t be a daft loony. And when you believe all of the crap that the voice spews, you hand over your freedom. You shrink. You vanish and what is left isn’t what the world deserves.
Hillary, on the other hand, modeled the opposite. She taught me that for her, authenticity wasn’t about overwhelming others with unimaginable power. It wasn’t contorting yourself to fit, or bending to please in order to achieve a goal. She showed me and everyone else that authenticity is always about staying rooted in who you are when the winds are strong enough to knock anyone else flat. It’s radical freedom: the power to be unshaken, unmasked, and unborrowed in a world that wants to rewrite you at the very least. .
My silence that day taught me something too: if you don’t bring your full self, the moment passes—and the world never gets to meet the real you.
If you want to explore authenticity for you or your brand, contact me here: https://tinyurl.com/Contact-Rene