Authenticity Doesn’t Always Look Pretty — But It’s Real

I think I’m learning something about what authenticity really means.

It’s not always calm. It’s not always graceful. It’s not always well-timed or well-spoken.

Sometimes, it’s letting the wounded child take the wheel — not to crash the car, but to show that I see him now.

And that’s what I did.

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When I found out I didn’t get onto the Level 4 course, I spiraled.
I projected. I withdrew. I built stories around the silence.
And beneath all of it was one thing: deep insecurity.

I didn’t hide it.
I didn’t pretend I was okay.
I didn’t fake detachment or play it cool.

I showed up for myself — as I was.

Raw. Embarrassed. Defensive.
Disappointed in myself. Disappointed in the system.
Still holding a thread of hope that someone might see me clearly.

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And here’s what I’ve realized:

That is authenticity.
Not performing clarity — but owning confusion.
Not masking disappointment — but naming it.
Not rising above shame — but sitting beside it.

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I feel some shame about how I handled it.
I can admit that now, without turning it into self-hate.

But I also have compassion for why I handled it that way.

Because I’ve lived a life where being honest didn’t always feel safe.
Where showing hurt often led to more hurt.
Where the safest strategy was to take others down quietly in my mind before they could do it to me.

So this spiral wasn’t random.
It was a survival strategy — one that makes a little more sense the more I learn to look at it with soft eyes.

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And the difference now?
I didn’t let that pattern run the show forever.
I brought it to therapy.
I talked about it here.
I stayed in the room with myself, even when I wanted to disappear.

That’s the best I could do.
And maybe that’s what authenticity actually is:

Not the absence of messiness — but the willingness to meet it with honesty and care.

I showed up for my inner child.
I showed up for my adult self.
And I’ll keep showing up.

Even when it’s not pretty.
Especially then.

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