Screw Professionalism, Let's Get Real

Why is it considered "unprofessional" to cry at work?

Anger? That's just "passion" or "high standards." Frustration expressed as sharp criticism? "Direct communication." But tears? Unprofessional. Weak. A problem to be managed.

I've got a theory about who benefits from that rule.

Back when I was spending a lot of energy performing—neurotypical, feminine, extroverted—I worked for a series of straight, white, cis-male founders. They loved my critical systems-thinking, my productivity, my focus, and my creativity.

Right up until said something that was "too direct," or "lacking tact," and then I'd be put in my place.

I'd do my best to hide my frustration and my embarrassment. But sometimes it was just too much and I would cry. As much as I'd try to take the "feedback" as if it were well-meaning, I would inevitably also have to take care of them in their discomfort.

And then I'd absorb the consequences of having feelings, because clearly, I was the problem.

Despite their clear and vocal disapproval, I could never find a way to NOT cry when I felt overwhelmed, frustrated, or disempowered. It just happened.

If I'm comfortable with my emotions, and I have integrity in how I express them, then... why shouldn't I cry?

At some point I stopped and wondered: Who actually benefits from this idea that THE CRYING is the problem?

The answer: Assholes.

Assholes who are disregarding the true and real human emotions happening in front of them. Jerks who will not cop to their own misuse of power, words, or circumstances.

In short: The only people who benefit from the "no crying at work" rule are the people causing the crying.

When I started my own company, I immediately stopped crying for some reasons, but occasionally did for other reasons. Entrepreneurship is hard, after all.

But most importantly, I created a culture where crying was okay. Where it was just another form of self-expression. Where emotions weren't something to be managed or hidden—they were information. Maybe they had screwed up, maybe I had, or maybe no one had but the circumstances still caused some strife. All totally valid learning opportunities in my world.

And something unexpected happened: My relationships with clients became dramatically deeper.

When I show up as my whole self—sometimes frustrated, sometimes moved, sometimes overwhelmed—it gives my clients permission to do the same. We can talk about what's actually happening, not just what's "professional" to acknowledge.

We can name the real reasons they're avoiding their marketing. We can address the actual fear behind their pricing decisions. We can talk about the grief of letting go of a business model that no longer serves them.

This is what integration looks like in practice. Not perfection. Not "fully healed and therefore ready to lead." But showing up whole—healed or unhealed—and creating space for others to do the same.

The work gets better. The relationships get stronger. The impact gets deeper.

But here's the thing: This is really hard to do alone.

When everyone around you is performing professionalism, it takes enormous courage to be the one person showing up authentically. You second-guess yourself. You wonder if you're doing it wrong. You need people who can remind you that your wholeness isn't a liability—it's your greatest asset.

Most leaders have teams to help them navigate this. As solopreneurs, we have to build that team intentionally.

Buffalo Collective is designed to be that team: people who show up whole, call each other forward, hold space for the hard stuff, and remind each other that integration isn't a destination—it's a practice.

We start in January with two small groups—one IRL in Twin Cities, one virtual online.