LinkedIn Lies

I’ve come to realise that I really do not like LinkedIn.

On a practical level, I know why it exists. It’s useful when looking for a new role, necessary when hiring, and — at least in theory — a place for professional networking. All of that makes sense. And yet, despite understanding its purpose, I find myself increasingly uncomfortable with what it rewards.

This really became clear for me after one of those emails announcing that I had received a message. It wasn’t the first, or even the fifth, so I logged in with low expectations. As expected, there was no meaningful conversation waiting for me — just a stream of adverts, marketers, and connection requests dressed up as interest but clearly aimed at selling something. I deleted them and, out of habit, scrolled through my feed.

What caught my attention wasn’t the posts, but the profiles. I started clicking into the profiles of people I know — or at least people I’ve worked with, or worked alongside at the same companies. These weren’t strangers. These were roles and teams I understood well, in some cases because I’d done the job myself or been involved in hiring for it. And that’s where the discomfort set in.

So many inflated profiles. Job titles stretched further than reality. Team sizes quietly multiplied. Achievements were framed as transformational, decisive, and heroic. Reading them, you’d think each person had single-handedly rescued every project they’d ever been involved in.

I don’t think this is malicious. It’s a learned behaviour — a quiet adaptation to a platform that rewards confidence, scale, and certainty far more than nuance or collaboration. Complexity doesn’t read well in a headline. Shared responsibility doesn’t stand out in a bullet point. And “part of a team that did something reasonably well” doesn’t attract attention.

But it does introduce an awkward question: how do you remain honest in an environment that seems to penalise honesty?

If you describe your role accurately, you risk underselling yourself next to someone who doesn’t. If you acknowledge uncertainty, learning, or support from others, you appear weaker than someone with a perfectly polished narrative of success. Over time, the exaggeration has become normalised — not because everyone believes it, but because everyone feels they have to play along.

Much of this spills over into CVs as well. And perhaps that’s the part I struggle with most. If everyone is quietly embellishing the truth, the baseline shifts. Integrity becomes harder to spot, not because it’s absent, but because it’s less visible.

My own position on this is simple: I choose to tell the truth.

That means describing what I actually did. It means being clear about the scale of my responsibility, my limited influence, and the fact that most worthwhile outcomes are the result of a team effort rather than heroics. It also means being honest about uncertainty, mistakes, and learning, even when the platform seems to discourage it.

I don’t pretend this is the best option for career advancement. It will put me at a disadvantage. But it’s a trade-off I’m willing to make. Trust, once lost, is difficult to regain, and I’d rather be quietly credible than loudly impressive (although I can certainly be loud).

So this is where I am. I’ll carry on engaging when I need to, and disengage when I don’t. I’ll read profiles with a sceptical eye, write my own with restraint, and accept that telling the truth may not always win attention — but it does let me sleep at night.