The Nomad is a series of stories, fascinations, encounters, observations, experiences, joy of the moments by me, Ulrike Reinhard – all around my travels. Stay tuned!
Ulrike Reinhard is The Nomad 🙂
“Show me your vulnerability!”
In 2011, I meet Rob Hale – a personal trainer with a theatre background. We’re both freelancers on a project for the Bertelsmann Foundation. He captures my interest.
I like his voice – deep, rich, yet unexpectedly soft. Each word lands with clarity, perfectly enunciated. And his body moves, almost imperceptibly, in sync with the rhythm of his speech. A slight sway, a shift of weight, a tilt of the head – like a conductor guiding an invisible orchestra. Every syllable has its place, every pause feels intentional. It’s not just speaking; it’s a performance, and I can’t help but be drawn in.
The moment I meet Rob, something clicks. This is the guy who can help me. I just know it.
I have a talk coming up later in the year, and the idea of standing on a stage makes my pulse race – in all the wrong ways. I have no trouble speaking in meetings or jumping into a discussion. But the moment I’m alone under the lights, facing a silent audience, something shifts. My confidence wavers. My body stiffens. My voice betrays me.
But I want to do this. I have something to say, and I refuse to let stage fright hold me back. So I ask Rob if he’ll work with me. A few weeks later, we start.
I learn that Rob is an admirer of people who tell stories truthfully in an unpackaged way. Because of his own background as an actor and theatre director, he has a certain discernment and personal discrimination/taste for what he views as compelling truthfulness on stage. He loves actors who are unpredictable, present and truly available to the aliveness of the stage which includes other players and the audience. This ability to stay in the moment means each performance is truly unique, uncertain, live and unrepeatable. For Rob the greatest currency of an actor is vulnerability – the willingness to have a thin skin, being able to reveal the uncertain nature of being alive and not relying on protective and repetitive strategies.
This resonates with me. This is what I see in a great speaker/actor as well.
We send popular TED talks back and forth, dissecting them like film festival critics. I highlight what resonates, what feels off, what makes me cringe. Bit by bit, we start to carve out the essence of what I want to express. And how I want to express it. It’s anything but smooth sailing. I stumble through my own intentions – questioning, refining, doubting. But eventually, clarity begins to surface. I start to see what it is I truly want.
Driving change is my topic. And storytelling is my way in. I don’t want to lecture people about how to do it – I want to make them feel it. I want to take what I’ve learned and wrap it in real experiences, moments that mattered, moments that shaped me. No filters, no sugarcoating. Just the truth. People remember stories, not statistics. If I want my message to land, I must bring them along for the ride.
How Embracing Vulnerability Unlocks Real Power
Then the ‘real’ work with Rob begins.
We are in the Fortune Theatre, a small theatre near Covent Garden, in the City of Westminster, London. The theatre is intimate – it is the second smallest traditional West End theatre. Built in the 1920’s it has about 430 seats on three levels and a raised stage known as a ‘rake’. It slopes upwards, away from the audience, from the front to the back. Such a design was typical of English theatre in the Middle Ages and early Modern era, and improves the view and sound for spectators. It also helps with the illusion of perspective, making it seem like the audience is looking into a real, extended space.
When I climb up the stage I feel like I’m entering a new dimension. I feel a rush of excitement, and I am nervous. But why? I can’t quite pin it down.
We do some simple physical exercises: Rob wants me to get more connected to my emotional body rather than being an intellectual talking head. He asks me to drop my chin a little – it alters how I am received – as I tend to then communicate more from my emotional centre.
He reminds me that I wanted the audience to experience how I feel and what I think. So I need to communicate from my passion – meaning to communicate what is important, spontaneous, meaningful and unpredictable in my story. This helps me to be more in touch with a vulnerable part of myself.
He tells me that I am a little too certain and impenetrable, which somehow doesn’t leave enough room for the audience to have their own thoughts. And he admits: “I remember when you first spoke at the Bertelsmann gathering – I was impressed by your confidence and toughness – you were quite strident.” Now he challenges me to offer an experience to the audience that is not my certain opinion because the nature of human experience is far from certain. He asks me to reveal my opinion as something that the audience and I continue to be interested in and have questions about. “This”, he says, “presents you as someone who is able to be in a space of delicate questioning alongside your undeniable knowledge and experience. And then,” he goes on, “your talk becomes truly compelling. It’s a humanising process.”
So what we are doing here – I understand – is to uncover another softer layer of me and showing my vulnerability.
In these sessions at the small theatre in West London, I embark on a journey I never expected when I asked Rob to work with me. To learn how to express vulnerability. It seems simple enough at first, but as I stand there, I realize how foreign this idea is. Before this, I never thought about it. When I’m on stage, intuitively I’ve always assumed I need to play a role, an image to project. It’s me telling the people what I know. Lecturing.
But Rob, with his calm guidance, encourages me to strip that away, step by step.
Each session feels like peeling back another layer of myself. What is this ‘ME’ that I want to express? The question seems straightforward, but the answer isn’t. It’s multi-layered, intricate, and buried under years of habits and expectations. I’m not just standing there, performing; I’m digging deep, uncovering parts of myself that I’d kept hidden – sometimes out of fear, sometimes out of habit. And with each moment I spend in that theatre, I become more aware of how vital it is to be myself on stage – not some polished version.
It is a journey from feeling a need to cover the fear of vulnerability towards accepting the beauty, humanity and strength of that human truth. From performance and show, to presence and being.
The determined and resilient survivor I was, I lost (at least in parts) on that stage. The survivor is a layer above the delicacy of my shared human experiences – they reveal something deeper.
Moments of Truth
The nervousness is still there when I step out into the limelight, but it doesn’t control me anymore. I understand: vulnerability isn’t a weakness. It’s a strength. It’s what connects me to the audience. It’s what makes me human, and it’s what makes my message matter.
Now, having spoken at TEDx, universities, schools, business conferences, and corporate events, I get it even more. I am sure I can still do better, but I am making progress. Every time I step on stage, I’m no longer playing a role – I’m showing up as myself. And I realize that it’s not just the audience who benefits from this honesty; I do, too. The more I embrace vulnerability, the more powerful my voice becomes.
My Nerves Never Really Leave Me
I still feel that familiar knot in my stomach when I step onto the stage. The nerves never really leave me, no matter how many times I’ve done this. But today, instead of pushing them down or pretending they don’t exist, I decide to embrace them. They’re part of the ride, after all. I’ve learned that.
It happens during my TEDx talk in Antwerp, Belgium in 2018. Everything is going well, the audience is engaged, and I’m in the zone… until I’m not. Suddenly, I freeze. The words that were flowing so smoothly just a moment ago? Gone. The next thought, the next sentence, the whole damn speech, they all slip away into nothingness.
For a moment, there’s silence. I can feel the weight of the spotlight pressing down on me, my heart racing faster. But instead of scrambling, instead of pretending like I have everything under control, I take a breath. I look at the audience, make eye contact with a few faces. And then, I tell them: “I lost track. I’m sorry.” I talk to them directly. And I am simply honest.
A few seconds of awkwardness. I can feel it in the air, but I don’t fight it. Instead, I reach for my water bottle, take a sip, and just start over. Fresh. No shame. No hiding.
To my surprise, the audience doesn’t judge. They don’t stare awkwardly. Instead, they connect. When I begin again, there’s applause. The kind of applause that comes from a place of genuine appreciation. Later, I hear from several people in the crowd who say they love how I handled the situation. They tell me how refreshing it was to see someone simply be honest, to show they’re human, and not try to cover up the slip-up.
That moment sticks with me. It’s a revelation. It’s not about perfection. It’s about authenticity. In that vulnerable moment, I learn something that no script could have taught me: Being real, even when I’m not at my best, is what truly connects me with people.
Through My Stories I Create Experiences
One of the most powerful ways to show vulnerability is through passionate storytelling. When I speak from a place of passion, not just expertise, when I show what I care about. When my voice cracks with emotion, when a tear is running down my cheek, when my tone softens with uncertainty – that’s vulnerability. That’s when people lean in. That’s when they listen. That’s when they remember.
I think back to my TEDx talk in New Delhi, India, in 2017. The buzz around my skateboarding project, The Barefoot Skateboarders in Janwaar, is everywhere – media outlets across the country can’t stop talking about it. So, naturally, I’m invited to speak.
But this talk isn’t just about what I did in Janwaar; it’s about making people feel it. I share the story of Ramkesh, a poor Adivasi boy, an untouchable, who comes to the skatepark for three days in a row without daring to ask to join the Yadav boys. His background, the deep-rooted caste system still alive in the village, makes it impossible for him to simply step in. He sits on the sidelines, eyes glued to the others, silently longing to join them. Every day, his gaze intensifies, his desperation palpable. It tugs at my heart.
On the third day, I can’t stand it any longer. I walk over to him. “Do you want to skateboard?” I ask, my gestures speaking louder than my words. Ramkesh doesn’t speak English, but he understands and his face lights up like a lantern. A massive smile breaks across his face, and I motion to one of the Yadav boys to hand over his skateboard. The boy looks at me, stunned. For a moment, he hesitates, but something shifts in him. He hands it over.
Ramkesh grabs the board, runs a few steps, and without hesitation, jumps on it. He skates off – effortlessly, naturally – a born skateboarder.
That’s the moment something profound changes in that village. The ice between the Adivasi and the Yadav kids shatters. The Adivasi realize the skatepark is their space too. The Yadavs get it – they have to share.
As I tell the story, my voice wavers, and tears spill down my cheeks. I step off script, carried away by my own emotions, but the words flow naturally because I know exactly what I want to say. I pause to regain composure, feeling the weight of the story, but when I speak again, the message is clear: we broke the caste barrier!
The room goes silent. It’s like the entire audience is holding its breath. And then, suddenly applause erupts. The kind that comes from deep understanding. I hear later that many people were crying, moved by the story. They knew exactly what I was talking about – they felt it.
It’s one of the most powerful moments I’ve ever experienced on stage.
From The Stage Into My Life
The fact of allowing myself to show my vulnerability on stage and to experience the power it unleashes, helps me to take what I’ve learned from Rob on stage and apply it into my real life: Meaning I no longer only show on stage my vulnerability but in everyday situations. And – just as profoundly – I begin to see the power in moments when others allow me to witness their vulnerability. Or for that matter I start recognizing what ‘magic’ is lacking if they don’t.
That’s a big step for me.
Before, I often mistook vulnerability as a weakness. But now I start to understand that it’s one of the most powerful forces I and others can bring into any relationship – whether in business or in life.
I have it in me, but I am not fully aware of it. It’s vulnerability that builds trust. It humanizes me as a person, it opens space for working and living together, and it invites learning and resilience. When I honestly say, “I don’t know, I can’t do this, I am afraid, or this matters to me”, I unlock a culture of authenticity, honesty and growth. I create room for connection, not performance. I move beyond surface-level and into something real.
And I realize, I don’t need to be perfect, all I need is to be real. Be me. There is no role to play. And I no longer expect others to be perfect, but I expect them to be real. I don’t want some kind of version from them, I want them as they are. If this is not possible, I allow myself to cut the tie. And I feel perfectly free to do so because now I know there is more. Cutting ties – meaning spending no longer time on things which aren’t real – enriches my life. Keeping them would mean my life becomes poorer.
It’s not always smooth. Not always easy. It comes with doubts. And it hurts at times. Vulnerability isn’t the soft option. It’s the brave one. And it just might be the key to everything that matters.