We have a tall poppy problem in this country. But the solution isn’t to shrink yourself – it’s to own your wins without losing sight of how you got there. All of it. Including the parts that didn’t go to plan.
You worked hard. You got the promotion, landed the client, built the team from scratch. You should talk about it. You should be proud of it.
But there’s a version of owning your success that quietly alienates the people around you and it’s not always obvious when you’ve crossed that line.
The difference between pride and arrogance often comes down to one thing: whether you make room for the full story.
Arrogance isn’t always loud
In a professional context, arrogance tends to be subtle. It’s the interview where someone lists every achievement in the singular “I built,” “I delivered,” “I turned it around”, with no mention of the team that made it possible.
It’s the LinkedIn post that positions hard-earned success as inevitable, as if luck, timing, a great manager, or a supportive workplace had nothing to do with it.
But there’s another version that gets talked about less: the person who presents a career that looks suspiciously perfect. Every role a stepping stone. Every project a triumph. No wrong turns, no stumbles, no moments of genuine doubt.
That version of arrogance isn’t loud; it’s polished. And polish, taken too far, stops feeling human.
Your failures are part of the story too
Here’s what I’ve noticed after years in recruitment: the candidates who stand out aren’t the ones with the most flawless track records. They’re the ones who can talk about what went wrong and what it taught them.
The campaign that tanked and forced a total rethink of their approach. The hire that didn’t work out and changed how they now lead. The project they were certain about that failed spectacularly and the scar tissue that came with it.
That’s not weakness. That’s a career that has actually been lived. And it tells a hiring manager far more about who you are than any clean highlight reel ever could.
What arrogance actually costs you
When you present a career without failures, you signal one of two things to the person across the table: either you haven’t taken enough risks to fail, or you don’t have the self-awareness to reflect on it.
Neither is a great look.
You’re not a robot. Stop presenting like one.
Your career has developed over time. There were moments when you were out of your depth. Roles that challenged you in ways you didn’t expect. Feedback that stung but changed you. Decisions you’d make differently now.
That is not baggage. That is growth. And it is one of the most compelling things you can bring to a conversation about your career.
The person who says “I got that wrong, here’s what I learned, and here’s how I approach it now” is someone I want to champion. Because they’ve done the work, not just professionally, but personally. And that kind of self-awareness compounds over a career in ways that raw achievement simply doesn’t.
But please – don’t shrink
None of this means you lead with your worst moments or apologise for what you’ve achieved.
We already live in a culture where people, especially women, especially those from certain backgrounds, are conditioned to downplay their wins before they’ve even made the claim.
That’s not humility. That’s tall poppy syndrome doing its work on you from the inside.
You should absolutely say:
“I led that project. It was hard. I’m proud of what we delivered.”
Both parts of that sentence matter.
The version that actually works
Pride says: “Here’s what I achieved, here’s who helped me, here’s what I learned along the way — including the hard parts.”
Arrogance says: “Here’s what I achieved. Full stop. It was always going to go that way.”
One of those builds credibility. The other quietly erodes it — because it asks people to believe in a version of you that doesn’t exist.
Own your career – all of it. The wins, the people who shaped you, the mistakes that redirected you, and the growth that came out the other side. That’s not a liability. That’s a story worth telling.
I’d love to know, what’s the failure or stumble in your career that taught you the most? Drop it in the comments. I genuinely want to hear it.
First published in Sarah’s LinkedIn newsletter, Recruitment Rambles. Read the original edition on LinkedIn.
