It’s a new year, and you are here. Thank you. May 2024 be the “it” year for love and revelation, for trusting that what organizes, collapses, and so to reforms. This kicks off a string of heady existential essays meant to be read in order!
I hear the word “authentic” being tossed around the way an orca bobs its prey before violently killing it. This happens mostly on instagram, but repeatedly in the neo-spiritual lit I read as well. I myself am one of the people inflicted by the word and its meaning—its opportunity. Hungry for relief from my neurotic self, I often fall for advice that encourages I can be the authentic me. The true me. The real me.
The irony of chasing my own authenticity is that I often relied on someone else to tell me how to find or cultivate this alleged “real” me. Which, I realize now sounds a bit counterintuitive to the whole point of being oneself. Do I really think a stranger knows how to better live my life more so than I do? Truth is, for many years the answer was—yes. Which made sense because for many years I had made quite a mess of my life1. It made sense to reach for my own becoming on the base of advice from others who I believed knew better than me. But I understand differently now. I know I possess the same access to beinghood as anyone else does, most certainly my own, and that the mess of my experience was in fact fertile ground for my becoming. I’m feeling very much myself these days, which is why it’s fair to confess that arriving where I am is, perhaps, a happy consequence of the many years spent chasing my own authenticity by everyone else’s way.
“The fool who follows in his folly becomes wise.” - not sure who originally said this, but I heard it from Alan Watts
Storytime…
The word “authentic” first came into my consciousness in 2019 when I spent a hefty chunk of money on an in person forum (ie. self-development course iee. some might say cult, but I would say cult-ish).
I remember the weather requiring a warm jacket, but not the exact time of year. I enter a building with no name on it (ominous), just the address I followed from google maps. My eyes scan for other eyes in the hopes someone will tell me what I’m doing, how I got here, and that I’ll be myself soon. I follow the other bodies, and before long I’m guided by the smiles of program leaders with name tags to a large room in the basement, seemingly not updated since 1980. The florescent lighting spares no flaw, not for me or the sixty or so other strangers, all seemingly normal see: existentially lost humans, gathering in their seats. My heart pounds in anticipation and regret for what I’m agreeing to do, which is for three whole days from 10 am until 10 pm, I’m learning how to be authentic, among other things, from a man (who I know nothing about) on a stage. Cringe.
The room falls into silence as the forum begins. We listen wide eyed, randomly fidgeting in our seats, as the man on a stage tells us things like, “Your trauma isn’t real.” “You’re all liars who thrive on drama.” “You’re all trapped by the stories you tell yourself.” “You can take responsibility for everything that’s happened to you, even if you didn’t want it to happen to you.” “It’s time to be authentic.” Waves of discomfort and resistance wash over me, but I’m hooked. I love hearing what’s wrong with myself and how to fix it—how to be free of it.
I’m quiet the first day, but by the second day, after seeing someone have a huge “breakthrough”, I drink the proverbial kool-aid and get on the stage to share my story, as we’ve been encouraged to do. I’ve done a lot of stand up2 by now, but this is by far the largest audience I’ve ever been in front of—and I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to be “authentic”. So I’m definitely trying to be funny, if I’m honest. I’m encouraged to share a time from my childhood when I felt powerless. There are many, and typing this now I don’t know exactly why I went with the story I did, there were probably better instances to pull from, but alas. The microphone reverberates my semi-vivid remembering of being roughly 7 and my dad has just yelled at me in front of his friend after I made a cheeky joke about his friend’s divorce, which they were discussing in front of me as if I wasn’t there. The sting of my dad’s anger and the despairing half-smile on the man’s face who I just roasted sent pine needles of shame through my adolescent body, imbedding themselves into the deepest folds of my psyche.
The audience nods and lets out some sighs. The man on the stage calls me courageous, which tickles me. Confessing (what’s to me) a deep cut before a room full of supportive strangers lets me feel seen in every sense of the word. And now, it’s time “to be free of this”. The man on the stage guides me—first, I have to separate the story from the event. What happened happened. But the story I tell myself about it is only alive because I keep it alive. For example, what happened with as little “story” attached as possible is something like: father spoke loudly at daughter in front of other adult. But the narrative or story about it is, more or less, father humiliated and shamed me for expressing myself. Or perhaps another way I internalized it is that people can get hurt when I express myself, and thus playful expression has negative consequences. This became a lens (one of many) of which I view reality through, and hey, it tracks. Now I am free! The story doesn’t have to be true. This no longer has to take up room in my consciousness, unless of course I want it to—(there are pay offs for our lenses/stories and it’s that they get to be true, which means in essence we’re right, and most of us would rather be right than be free).
There are many stories that shape(d) who I am that I’m still sifting through, and many more I probably haven’t located. I wouldn’t necessarily say I “got free” that day, and I also wouldn’t say “trauma isn’t real”. The forum isn’t for everyone. I am, however, left with a lingering sentiment that we absolutely do limit ourselves and others with the stories we craft and believe, and that these stories are never actually entirely accurate or true.
According to the forum, in order to combat these stories we craft, one must begin to “live authentically” by aligning their word and their actions as one. “Be your word”, they would say. Do as you say you’re going to do, and if you fail to do as you say, then say you failed (without apology) and do as you say you’re going to do next. Writing this now reveals something that went over my head back then. Authenticity, in the realm of the forum, is not so much about behaving and speaking perfectly, something I’m often attempting, rather in aspiring to align who we are being with our word includes admitting when we’ve failed to do so. This gives us room to be imperfect and flawed (because we are) which actually allows us to take full ownership of ourselves, not just the parts we deem worthy. This creates cohesion. This creates congruence. This creates integrity—to be “integral” translates to “whole”.
Whether we do as we say or fail to do as we say makes no difference as long as we take ownership of it. This is how we become authentic people— essentially, we own that we never fully are. For as cheesy, cringey, and culty as the the forum was, more importantly, it was a life changing invitation for us (in that room that day) to challenge our perspectives by realizing how faulty and inflamed they are; how distorted so much of what we say about the world and ourselves is. Interpretations over events that have long since happened echo around our skulls like curses. And fortunately, being creative beings who can become aware of their conditioning, we possess the power to break them and live our most present lives.
Isn’t it ironic—if you aren’t claiming your worst (as well as your best) behavior as part of the “real” you, you are doomed to a life of inauthenticity—don’t ya think?
Each of us are uniquely shaped through our trauma as well as our resilience, and whatever lies in-between. However, this molding of our being is not static nor in truth holds any bearing on who we want to be right now and moving forward. For as much as we are used to claiming that we are who we are because of our past—and we are, using frameworks for reality from grade school are likely going to have a few bugs when placed over our adult lives. The world may be the same as it ever was, and it also isn’t. Or perhaps more accurately, it doesn’t have to be. I would even go as far to argue that our failure to truly root from the present is in part why history repeats.
Our misunderstandings and misrepresentations from youth, when we lacked the perspective and sensitivities to our human complexity, became feedback loops, habits and rituals for navigating the world. If these are not questioned and updated regularly, they have no other option but to become outdated. We provide ourselves no other option(s) other than to repeat our childhood frameworks, which become self-fulfilling prophecies, which become reality itself. How many of us are living in the present with stories from the past plastered over everything? Well, all of us, some of us are just more aware of it.
The brain is a clever organ. It is constantly making maps of reality in an attempt to cut corners and save energy. And oftentimes, if it thinks something is so, it will look for ways to prove it. It has no problem taking shortcuts or making grand sweeping assumptions. Meaning, self-fulfilling prophecies are real and are no more than a lack of imagination and attention. And this is not a problem that we must solve. It’s a feature of being human that we must accept. We tend to operate from what is the easiest and most ingrained, and this isn’t because we’re lazy, but because that’s how the brain works. It takes effort and attention to realize when we’ve not kept our word, to face bravely that this simply means we’re just human, and to try again next time.
Authenticity then, according to me, has so very little to do with being a certain way that stands up against time that is true, good, or real. To me, it has more to do with not being a particular way at all, not completely. Meaning only—we change. We are more malleable in nature than solid, though our bones would have us believe otherwise. To say that there is a real way of being or an authentic way of being insinuates there is a fake way of being. But maybe there aren’t real and fake ways so much as more open or hidden ways. Transparent or deceptive ways. And must we make this some ethical issue of one being right or wrong? Lest we forget when we are first learning to be in the world as wee ones, so much of what we are doing is imitating. Is it any surprise this carries over into adulthood? Do we really need to put so much pressure on ourselves to “be authentic” when really, we like, are?
To be authentic, truly genuine, I have to own that the illusions and delusions, the stories and the misrepresentations, play their own role in who I am, who we are, and are thus part of the authentic living experience. What I mean to say is, being authentic is really just being and noticing who we are being and accepting it. There is no real us, higher us, or better us. There is only us now. Our brains, biases and limited senses allow for so much false projection and misunderstanding. They also allow for everything that constructs our lives. The beauty and the horror. The delusion and the truth. All of the simple unfettered joy.
Everything belongs, it seems, even our delusions are just as important as our realizations about them. Perhaps we cannot stretch towards what is true without some delusion. Perhaps learning many “inauthentic” (or other people’s) ways of being led me to my own. And besides, what is my way? It’s never truly mine alone, it’s shaped by all of my life’s relationships, workings and craftings—of all of the people I’ve listened to and obeyed, and rebelled against. My way is never truly my way, but a conglomerating shifting of ways, uniting and dispersing. Perhaps all I can claim as my way is the choosing of what to keep as my standards, the finding out for myself if it “works” for me, and the conviction and trust that is cultivated in doing so—how this leads to my own, unique relationship with reality. How nonetheless, all of it always subject to change.
Nothing lasts. Everything is real. Truth is not ours to claim, but to be a part of.
I struggled with drug and alcohol addiction from the age of 13 into my early 30’s. You name it, I tried it, and I even had a stint in rehab at 17 for uppers. I will have been sober from alcohol for two years this May :) and the only other drugs I do are weed and psychedelics on special occasions.
I am a stand up comedian sometimes, but nowadays I mostly just call myself a performer. If you’re interested in seeing me perform be sure to follow my insta @sammorgannnnn to be updated on upcoming shows!
One of your best pieces yet, darling. So authentic ;) Keep being you.