johnmaconline

“Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are.”

– Brent Brown, “The Gifts of Imperfection”

About ten years into my career, I started working with an old test engineer named Tom. Tom confused the shit out of me.

My confusion stemmed from my perception of status in the engineering world. Test engineers were the lowest rung on the status ladder and usually grumpy.

But Tom loved it. He thrived. He smiled. He enjoyed the day.

As I sat next to him in the lab while he showed me exactly how my latest release was broken, I asked him about his buoyant attitude.

“I discovered a long time ago that in my heart, I’m a test engineer, not a design engineer. I like the minutiae and process of testing. I like dreaming up ways to break the system. I like designing tests, and quite frankly, I like sticking it to the developers. So I let it (design) go and embraced testing.”

We’re a society that longs for who we think we’re supposed to be. 

And how do we set our targets for that? Through mimetic desires, of course. We look outside of ourselves to find a model. Most times, we pick our models based on some metaphysical perception of status. 

I’m no different, and I’m deep in the throws of it right now — finding authenticity. 

True authenticity demands The Letting Go. 

True self. Real self. Authentic self. 

Is blurting out an emotional reaction authentic?
Is saying “no” to giving the speech authentic?
Does a Harley Davidson tattoo show authenticity?
Is refusing to be a guest on a particular someone’s show authentic?
Was the “pile-on” post the authentic you?

I think sometimes we conflate authenticity with:

• Lack of empathy
• Lack of self-control
• Comfort
• Tribe loyalty
• Virtue signaling
• Status

The best definition of authenticity that I found comes from Brene Brown:

“Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are.

Choosing authenticity means:

• cultivating the courage to be imperfect, to set boundaries, and to allow ourselves to be vulnerable;
• exercising the compassion that comes from knowing that we are all made of strength and struggle; and
• nurturing the connection and sense of belonging that can only happen when we believe we are strong enough.

Authenticity demands Wholehearted living and loving – even when it’s hard, even when we’re wrestling with the shame and fear of not being good enough, and especially when the joy is so intense that we’re afraid to let ourselves feel it.

Mindfully practicing authenticity during our most soul-searching struggles is how we invite grace, joy, and gratitude into our lives.”

– Brent Brown, “The Gifts of Imperfection”

All fathers and husbands know the expression that was on my wife’s face. 

It’s the expression that indicates the gig is up. It’s a hint of anger, colored by equal parts disappointment and shame. It’s the expression that says, “What the hell did you do?! Two minutes! I was gone for two minutes!”

Honestly, a part of me thought she might just deny us like Peter in the high priest’s courtyard and walk away like, “No, I do not know the man.” I know it crossed her mind. 

But she didn’t. She snapped right into action because, at this point, I was a broken and useless bystander. Somebody had to be a competent parent. So she slipped right in next to Joe to right the ship.

Her action rubbed off on me and snapped me back to the moment. I tended to Maddie as best I could, and within a minute or so, they both calmed down. The noise level finally backed off to a sniffling whimper. 

All that was left was the shame of my incompetence hanging in the air and displayed for all to see as partially digested chicken nuggets and ice cream. 

As parents, we pride ourselves on being respectful and responsible in public settings. At a restaurant, we ensured that we respected those around us, including the waitstaff. If we made a mess, we cleaned it up. 

But these were special times, and this was a special mess. 

As we tried hopelessly to clean it up, doing our best to salvage any shred of dignity that we could, one of the waitstaff said to us in the most loving yet earnest of ways, “Why don’t you guys go ahead and get out of here. We’ll take care of this.”

Chris and I looked at each, each grabbed a kid, and we walked right out. The one time in our parenting life that we took the opportunity to get the hell out of Dodge.

As we walked out, Chris shook her head like this was all a bad dream. She wouldn’t look at me. That’s probably better. 

Because I walked into the Old Country Buffet a competent and in-control father, and I walked out someone who couldn’t be trusted with a stuffed Barney doll, let alone a human child. 

My biggest insecurity as a new father was about to become a reality.

I doubt I’m alone when I admit that my biggest insecurity as a new father of toddler-age kids was competence. Especially in front of my wife. I don’t mean competence in a macho, chest-puffing way but a relaxing, calm, and in-control way. I wanted to be seen as a father in control who could handle things.

The four of us sat in a booth, and Chris and I were in man-to-man defense. Our 1-year-old daughter (Maddie) in a booster on the inside next to me, and our 2 1/2-year-old son (Joe) across the table from his sister next to my wife. Chris got up to hit the buffet, and that left Joe uncovered.

Just after she leaves, a fly starts buzzing around Joe, and he freaks out. He went through a phase with flying bugs — PTSD from a bee sting. Now he’s waving his arms at it and screaming.

So like the competent father I am, I adeptly spin around the table next to him to calm him down. That leaves Maddie uncovered.

She takes this moment of freedom to grab the red-clear plastic tumbler in front of her. I guess now was the time to drink like a “big girl.” She promptly pours the entire 16 ounces of ice-filled water down her face and over her entire body. And then she starts screaming and squirming. 

Uh, oh. I now have a competence problem. One I can handle, but two? On opposite sides of the table?

I quickly decide to spin back around the table to handle Maddie and keep her from falling out of the booster seat. That leaves Joe uncovered again. As soon as I leave, he takes his crying and screaming game to the next level.

And then he projectile vomits. All over everything — the table, himself, the booth. Puke everywhere. How could a two-year-old stomach hold so much? 

Now what do I do? I didn’t do anything, at least for a few seconds. Some part of me had given up. I just sat there and took it all in. Maddie soaking wet and screaming. Joe soaking wet, with puke all over him and everything else, and screaming. 

And then I looked up and saw Chris standing about 10 feet from our table, plate in hand, with that expression on her face. 

This entire sequence of events took less than 60 seconds. It only took 60 seconds to completely and methodically dismantle my faux air of fatherly and maybe manly competence.

I had been found out and publicly shamed. 

The evening started on such a high.

Joe was two and a half, and Maddie had just turned one. They were oblivious to the reason for our travel, but they sure were excited about our stop for dinner.

We had just completed the purchase of what would become the focal point of family recreation for the next 20 years — waverunners (the best family recreational purchase we ever made). We left the notary with our new boats in tow and excitement in our hearts.

We had an hour’s ride home, it was early evening, and the kids were hungry.

“You guys wanna stop for some dinner?”

“Yayyyyy!!!”

Why not? We were still abuzz with the high from the big purchase. Nothing puts parents in the mood to indulge their kids like exciting times. And these were definitely exciting times.

Luckily we spotted the oasis just a few minutes down the road — The Old Country Buffet. Barely edible food but ideal for the parents of small, hungry, and soon-to-be cranky children. Plus, and equally important for a novice boat-trailer puller like myself, the parking lot had plenty of open and navigable space.

No waiting. A plethora of bullshit, kid-craving, highly-processed food sludge to choose from. Easy in. Easy out.

This is our place.

We sit down, order the drinks, and within two minutes, we’re taking turns ferrying the kids up to the buffet. Chicken nuggets? Yup. Fries? Of course. Oh, now, ice cream? Sure. In between trips, we’re throwing down whatever it was we considered edible by adults.

We’re just about done, and Chris says, “I’m going up for some desert.” No problem, we’re doing good here. I’ve got this.

And then a sequence of events took place that a “Three’s Company” writer couldn’t have dreamed up.

We often get confused between professional and famous.

When a homeowner hires a pro house painter, she expects that person to show up on time, respect her property, clean up after themself, and finish the work according to the agreed-upon schedule. The painter doesn’t need to be a galleried artist.

When a manager hires a pro software developer, he expects that person to follow the team’s methodology, work to the schedule, respect (but not always agree with) the other team members, and know how to use the tools. The developer doesn’t need to have worked at Google, built their own successful social media app, or have a Ph.D. in computer science.

When a small business owner hires a pro accountant to file the tax return, she expects that person to ask her the right questions, know the applicable tax codes, know how to use the tools, and file on time. The accountant doesn’t need to have graduated from a famous school with a 4.0 in accounting.

We shouldn’t expect all the pros we hire to be famous or credentialed by the famous. But we all know a pro when we see one.

The pro brings a system and knowledge. The pro respects the people, the work, and time. The pro leaves it better than they found it.

You may not be famous or world-class (if such a thing could be measured), but you can certainly be a pro.

Go be a pro. You can’t control famous.

Each of these will serve you when applied correctly. Each of these will destroy you when applied incorrectly.

If you’re debating right and wrong, assume your counterpart is brilliant.
If you’re trying to solve a problem, assume your team is brilliant.
If you’re figuring out how to live together, assume your partner is brilliant.

And,

If you’re building a smartphone app, assume your users are stupid.
If you’re teaching a complex physics problem, assume your students are stupid.
If you’re driving on the belt parkway at rush hour, assume your fellow commuters are stupid.

Each of us is both brilliant and stupid. Success comes when you recognize when.

Live as if God exists.
Live as if you matter.
Live as if you are creative.
Live as if you have free will.
Live as if someone loves you.
Live as if someone depends on you.
Live as if you can make a difference.

On the one hand, it’s all we got.
On the other, it’s absolutely everything.

Visibile.
Looking outward.
Assuming objectivity.
Letting others define.

Rather…

Invisible.
Look inward.
Assume subjectivity.
Define for yourself.