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

Brene Brown, “The Gifts of Imperfection”

There’s a famous adage in the marketing and sales world:

“The customer doesn’t need a drill. They need a hole.”

The purpose behind this statement is explanatory. First, understand your customer’s true desire or need. And then, focus your message on meeting that desire or need. Your message should hook into your customer’s emotional state about that desire.

If you’re selling a drill, talk about the hole, not the drill. 

Why do we even care about authenticity? Why are we searching for our authentic selves? Why does it matter?

Because our ultimate desire, the hole we’re trying to create (fill, maybe?), is to invite grace, joy, and gratitude into our lives. No matter who you are and your personal history, you’ve experienced these emotions. Even those who might not use those exact terms or deep down don’t feel worthy (you are, though, you are). We all have at least some experience and are on a journey to reclaim. 

Authenticity is the method and the path.

Authenticity isn’t an excuse for knee-jerk reactions, or blind tribe loyalty, or status claiming. Nor is it a destination. The authentic you doesn’t exist as an endpoint but as an asymptote. 

And convergence toward that asymptote requires practice. 

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.

– Brene Brown, “The Gifts of Imperfection”

Cynical. Jaded. Guarded. “That’s how they get ya.”

These are protection mechanisms. Walls we learn — I’ve learned — to build so that we can handle the emotional roller coaster of life.

I’ve been building up these walls since childhood. Starting with the Locker Incident on my first day of 6th grade, continuing through my teenage years, and well into my mid-40’s, I felt an intense shame of not being good enough. Rejection. Layoffs. Cancellations. Failures. 

My reaction had always been to build more armor. To throw up more guards, lean into cynicism. Always be wary about getting got.

And all that did was pull me farther away from wholehearted living and loving. Always running in the opposite direction of the fear.

I’m now on a different path. A tough path. An uncomfortable path. A path I sometimes lose. But a path that feels better in my core. 

It’s a path of leaning into and airing the shame. A path of walking towards fear while recognizing that eliminating fear is impossible, but operating in the face of it is not. A path of allowing intense joy to overwhelm me. 

A path towards authenticity. 

Choosing authenticity means:

• nurturing the connection and sense of belonging that can only happen when we believe we are strong enough.

– Brene Brown, “The Gifts of Imperfection”

I describe myself as an extreme introvert. 

Some people, especially in my professional life, are surprised when I say that because I’m good at playing an extrovert on TV. “Extreme introvert” invokes images of social anxiety, solitary life in the wilderness, and an outsider — an aversion to connection and belonging.  

I certainly have felt that way at times. I’ve caught myself romanticizing about a simple life in the wilderness. Off the grid. Outside of the culture. I resonate on some level with the stories of people like Chris McCandless, Henry Thoreau, and even Ted Kaczynski.

But I’ve also found that my connections with others are the most significant and satisfying aspects of my life. My wife, kids, family, friends, church, and professional connections provide a fulfillment that could only come from a healthy sense of belonging.

In some very concrete ways, these connections describe my authentic self. They exist because I’ve nurtured them, and I nurture them because they form the foundation of how I see myself. 

And when those connections shake, even if just a little bit, my ship starts to list. My belief wavers. My sense of who I am becomes foggy. 

In those moments, the only thing that can right the ship is the recommitment to those to whom I belong. To once again recognize that I’ll find authenticity through nurturing connections. 

Choosing authenticity means:

• exercising the compassion that comes from knowing that we are all made of strength and struggle; and

– Brene Brown, “The Gifts of Imperfection”

I live in one of those little communities that exist all over America. The kind of place where a measurable portion of the 110 kids in the graduating class marry their high school sweetheart and buy a house just over the hill from their parents. The High School yearbooks serve as a public display of their family tree. They’re the fire company, run the Fair, and serve passionately on the school board. 

A friend from one of these families said to me once, “Sometimes I wish I’d moved away because everybody still thinks of me as the 17-year-old me. I don’t like the 17-year-old me. I never did. Here I am in my mid-40’s, but I can’t escape that idiot.”

I hear that. It’s exactly why I moved away.

Labeling. We all do it, and we all suffer from it. 

“Oh, you’re one of those…”

When we label, we miss the reason. And the reason is everything. The reason is the strength and struggle. Those strengths and struggles follow directly from our personal history — what we have experienced, who we have experienced, and where we have experienced. 

If there’s one aspect of authenticity that will fix the ills of our society, it’s this one. Empathy.

Choosing authenticity means:

• cultivating the courage to be imperfect, to set boundaries, and to allow ourselves to be vulnerable

– Brene Brown, “The Gifts of Imperfection“

Imperfect and vulnerable.

Which sixth grader wants to be seen as childish, awkward, or uncool?
Which husband wants to be seen as untrustworthy or not desirable?
Which father wants to be seen as incompetent?
Which employee wants to be seen as useless or part of the problem?
Which leader wants to be seen unsure?
Which middle-aged man wants to be seen as past their prime?

Imperfect and vulnerable.

Two things I’ve been fighting against across the arc of my life because I feel the gap between who I am and who I desire to be. And who in their right mind desires to be imperfect or vulnerable? Why would I even seek out the courage to be either?

But could it be that imperfect and vulnerable aren’t the targets of that gap, but the process by which I close it? Could I scratch and claw closer to authenticity through imperfection and vulnerability? 

Once we understand the difference between results and process, we can begin to see a glimpse of our authentic selves. 

And that process of publicly airing my imperfection and vulnerability will indeed require the cultivation of courage. 

“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.