True authenticity means embracing your whole self, the you who’s wearing a miniskirt rocking out onstage and the you that’s eating a bag of Doritos wondering when the hell puberty is going to show up.Īs you do this work, see the habits that you’re cultivating as opportunities to let the rare gems of your authenticity shine through, instead of viewing them as proof that you’re finally becoming a disciplined, and therefore more socially acceptable, person.įor example, getting into the habit of writing every morning is about expressing your desire to connect with other people through your words, words that are in your voice and that bravely share your wild and weird perspective on the world with your readers. Being authentic also means giving yourself permission to change your mind, to make mistakes, to be a jerk, to beg forgive‐ ness, to be sad, lonely, stupid, and lazy. This whole self‐development thing-upgrading your habits, pushing yourself outside your comfort zone, expanding your perception of reality, being a badass-isn’t a competition or some socially dictated finish line you cross that means you’ve finally “made it.” Nor is the quest to better yourself supposed to make you feel like a loser if you’re not thinking positive thoughts, or staying laser focused on your clearly defined goals, or clicking your heels with overflowing self‐love and happiness 24/7 (can you imagine how annoying that person would be to be around?).Īll this work is about giving yourself the room, the means, the information, the motivation, and the permission to be the most authentic expression of who you truly are.īeing authentic means loving who you love, pursuing the stuff you’re interested in, laughing at the shit you find funny, and fighting for what you think is right. “I don’t know,” he said, “there’s just something I love about it. “What is so fascinating about that picture?” I asked, not caring at all. OMG, I have to tell you the craziest story about this night… but he just moved the one he was already holding even closer to his face to get a better look. I tried to casually insert a picture of myself onstage wearing a miniskirt and an electric guitar into his hand. In the picture I’m also eating a bag of Doritos, helpless laughter exploding through my big, nacho‐cheesy smile. To my great frustration, however, he kept digging deep into the bowl, oblivious to my offerings, and ended up pulling out a picture of me at around age sixteen, standing in my friend’s driveway with ratty long hair, twiggy arms, not a breast yet in sight, wearing a blue T‐shirt that said to a teNNIs player, loVe meaNs NothING. What I was really doing was sneaking any picture where I looked sexy or cool or world‐travel‐y to the top of the pile so he’d be sure to see it. I’d dumped a couple of hundred pictures from various parts of my life in there, and while we sat and drank beers and sifted through them, I was actually only fake‐sifting through them. I remember being in my twenties and hanging out in my Manhattan apartment with my boyfriend at the time, looking through a giant bowlful of photographs that I kept on a table in my living room.
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