So if you desire to be remembered, to be trusted, to be embraced, don’t just parade your strengths. Tell your awkward stories. Laugh at your own missteps. Offer your flaws, not as disclaimers, but as gifts. Because when you lend your imperfection, you empower others to reclaim their own. And that, more than brilliance or polish, is what makes you unforgettable.
I love comedy clubs. Always have. My wife calls them my happy place and she’s not wrong. Although I haven’t had the opportunity to attend one recently, I often find myself immersed in stand-up clips from the likes of Dave Chappelle, Chris Rock, Kevin Hart, and a constellation of other comedic virtuosos. Back in the pressure-cooker days of my residency training in New York City, those clubs were my sanctuary. In those dimly lit rooms, laughter became a kind of quiet rebellion against the gravity of my daily grinds.
I still remember Comic Strip Live on the Upper East Side, reputedly the city’s longest-running stand-up venue. It’s where legends like Seinfeld and Rock first found their voice. There’s something profoundly human about that space, a microphone, a spotlight, and a brave soul mining personal flaws for communal catharsis.
Comedians, in my estimation, remain vastly underappreciated for the depth of intellect their craft demands. The best among them blend keen observation, emotional intelligence, and linguistic finesse to extract insight from the banal. They are, in effect, philosophers cloaked in levity, compressing complex human truths into punchlines that disarm and enlighten in equal measure. I’m especially drawn to those who wield self-deprecating humor, not as a shield, but as an offering.
Kevin Hart stands as a paragon of this art. His routines are laced with playful derision directed at himself, his diminutive stature, irrational fears, parental misadventures, and personal idiosyncrasies. He routinely recounts stories that would make most people cringe, yet he delivers them with infectious energy and unwavering authenticity. What renders his humor so potent is not merely its hilarity, but its vulnerability. His openness renders him profoundly relatable, even as he performs on the grandest stages.
People don’t laugh at him, they laugh with him, because in his candid admissions, they catch a glimpse of themselves. Little wonder then that, as of 2025, Hart’s net worth is estimated at a staggering $450 million, a testament not just to his talent, but to the resonance of his realness.
In contrast, we inhabit a culture increasingly enslaved to the illusion of perfection. A casual scroll through social media bombards us with curated existences, meticulously edited milestones, and flawless façades. Whether in professional settings or personal encounters, we are subtly urged to perform, to appear competent, polished, and unfailingly composed. And yet, paradoxically, the more flawless we seem, the more emotionally inaccessible we become.
Some years ago, I was invited to speak at a formal gala honoring newly recruited internal medicine residents. I arrived in my white coat, bearing the markers of seniority and authority. And almost immediately, I felt the chasm, a respectful but cautious distance. Then, on a whim, I veered away from my scripted remarks and recounted a humbling episode from my internship: the day I completely froze when asked to interpret an ECG.
The response was instantaneous, genuine laughter, followed by a palpable thaw in the room. In that moment, I was no longer the senior doctor behind the lectern; I was simply human with personal struggles. That experience left an indelible impression. When we dare to expose our imperfections, we offer others a rare and generous gift: the permission to be imperfect themselves. We affirm that they are not alone in their awkwardness, uncertainty, or inadequacies. That kind of emotional generosity engenders trust and belonging, far more than any résumé or rehearsed eloquence ever could.
Flawlessness, while often admired, is ultimately alienating. We may revere those who appear beyond reproach, but we seldom feel connected to them. Perfection imposes distance; it stifles intimacy. By contrast, imperfection functions as a bridge, it’s the shared vulnerability that allows trust to cross from one soul to another.
A good friend of mine once attempted stand-up comedy and met with a spectacularly awkward failure. The crowd recoiled; the silence was deafening. Yet, in the aftermath, several attendees approached him, not to mock, but to thank him. His willingness to fail publicly emboldened them. “You did something I could never do,” one remarked. His misfire achieved what no flawless set could: it forged connection through courage.
This truth applies well beyond the world of comedy. In leadership, too, the capacity to own one’s imperfection is a rare strength. I once worked under a hospital director who was unafraid to admit uncertainty. He frequently solicited our input with sincerity. Far from undermining his authority, this humility galvanized our trust. He led not with bravado, but with authenticity. We felt heard, respected, and invested.
Conversely, I’ve observed leaders who expend tremendous energy cultivating an image of infallibility. They may command compliance, but rarely allegiance. Teams may follow their directives, but the absence of genuine connection renders the engagement transactional, not transformative.
In more intimate settings, the same principle holds. The individuals we are most drawn to are rarely those who seem impeccably composed. Rather, they are the ones who make us feel safe, safe enough to be honest, uncertain, and unfinished. And that safety does not emerge from perfection, but from mutual vulnerability. It is often those who have dared to reveal their own wounds who become the custodians of our trust.
A few years ago, while visiting a rural clinic in Nigeria, I met a young doctor weighed down by disillusionment. His frustration was raw, his optimism visibly fraying. Rather than offering platitudes, I shared a story from the early, unvarnished days of my own career, complete with missteps, regrets, and all the silly mistakes I once made. He didn’t laugh. Instead, his eyes widened with something closer to relief.
In that moment, a quiet bridge formed between us. My vulnerability became his permission, not to fail carelessly, but to be human, to learn, and to keep going. To him, that story became a treasured gift, a reminder that even those who seem composed have stumbled, yet still found their way forward.
This is the true currency of connection, not perfection, but candor. Not superiority, but solidarity. The people we remember most fondly are seldom those who dazzled us with their flawlessness, but those who made us feel more at ease in our own flawed humanity.
When we encounter someone who is unafraid to confess doubt, failure, or misjudgment, we experience not just amusement, but invitation. An invitation to soften our defenses. To be a little less performative. And in that mutual vulnerability, both souls depart fuller than they arrived.
The simple truth is this: you need not be perfect to be worthy. In fact, your value often lies precisely in your imperfections. When you dare to show up as you are, unfinished, unvarnished, and real, you create sacred space for others to do the same. And within that space, something deeply human, and deeply healing unfolds.
So if you desire to be remembered, to be trusted, to be embraced, don’t just parade your strengths. Tell your awkward stories. Laugh at your own missteps. Offer your flaws, not as disclaimers, but as gifts. Because when you lend your imperfection, you empower others to reclaim their own. And that, more than brilliance or polish, is what makes you unforgettable.
The most magnetic people among us are not those who appear invulnerable, but those whose courage to be fully human helps the rest of us feel a little more whole.
“Lend ,by your imperfection ,self esteem to others and you will be invited everywhere”—Anonymous.
Osmund Agbo is a medical doctor and author. His works include, Black Grit, White Knuckles: The Philosophy of Black Renaissance and a fiction work titled The Velvet Court: Courtesan Chronicles. His latest works, Pray, Let the Shaman Die and Ma’am, I Do Not Come to You for Love, have just been released.
