For a long time, I thought authenticity meant becoming completely unguarded.
Saying exactly what I thought.
Explaining everything I felt.
Allowing people to see every part of me without hesitation.
Anything less seemed dishonest.
But that version of authenticity never felt especially safe.
It also wasn’t particularly realistic.
The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realised that authenticity isn’t the absence of boundaries.
It is the ability to choose what we reveal without abandoning who we are.
The Fear of Being Misunderstood
I’ve often felt misunderstood.
A nervous smile can look like amusement.
Looking away while I listen can look like disinterest.
Taking time to become comfortable can look like distance.
Thinking carefully before I speak can look like uncertainty.
When this happens often enough, you start anticipating it.
You monitor your face.
Your tone.
Your eye contact.
How much you’re speaking.
Whether the other person seems comfortable.
Eventually, the monitoring can become so automatic that you barely notice you’re doing it.
You just know that being around people feels strangely tiring.
The Protection of the Mask
Masking is often described as though it is simply a failure to be authentic.
I don’t think it’s that simple.
Sometimes a mask develops for a reason.
It protects us from rejection.
It helps us navigate situations where difference isn’t well understood.
It gives us a way to remain connected when showing up naturally has previously led to confusion.
There is intelligence in that protection.
The problem is what happens when it becomes the only way we know how to relate.
If I spend an entire interaction trying not to be misunderstood, I may prevent the other person from encountering much of me at all.
I become easier to interpret.
But harder to know.
Sometimes Context Creates Connection
Recently, I was reminded that misunderstanding doesn’t always have to mean disconnection.
Something about the way I responded had been interpreted differently from how I intended it.
My instinct could have been to retreat.
To become more careful.
To monitor myself even more closely.
Instead, we spoke about it.
I explained what had been happening for me, and the other person explained how it had appeared to them.
Nothing dramatic was required.
Just enough honesty to make the invisible visible.
Once the misunderstanding had been named, I felt more able to relax.
I became warmer, more humorous and more present.
The connection didn’t survive because I hid the difference successfully.
It deepened because we had enough language to understand it.
Explanation Is Not Apology
This feels important.
There is a difference between explaining ourselves and apologising for ourselves.
An apology says:
“I’m sorry I am like this.”
An explanation says:
“This is what may be happening, so you don’t have to guess.”
That might mean telling someone that I sometimes look away while processing information.
It might mean acknowledging that I take a little time to become comfortable.
It might mean saying that a smile is nervousness rather than amusement.
These are small disclosures.
But they can remove a great deal of uncertainty.
They allow the other person to respond to what is actually happening rather than the meaning they have had to construct for themselves.
Authenticity Is Selective
None of this means everyone is entitled to an explanation.
Not every environment is safe.
Not every relationship has earned openness.
Not every private experience becomes more meaningful because it has been shared.
Authenticity doesn’t mean giving everyone complete access to you.
It means that what you do share is not built around pretending to be someone else.
There are things I can speak about openly because I understand them well enough to choose my words.
There are other things I am still living through.
They may need privacy before they need an audience.
That isn’t hiding.
It is discernment.
A Scar and an Open Wound
People sometimes say we should share from the scar rather than the open wound.
I understand the principle.
A scar suggests something has been processed enough that it can be held without asking the audience to hold it for us.
An open wound may still need care, protection and time.
But I don’t think the line is always absolute.
We rarely understand an experience completely before speaking about it.
Writing is one of the ways I understand what is happening.
The more useful question may not be:
“Have I completely resolved this?”
It may be:
“Can I share this without making the response responsible for my wellbeing?”
Can I tolerate somebody disagreeing?
Can I tolerate silence?
Can I leave parts out without feeling dishonest?
Can I remain on my own side after the piece is published?
If the answer is no, the experience may need more privacy.
If the answer is yes, it may be ready enough.
Being Visible in My Work
This question has become especially relevant as I build work that feels increasingly personal.
Counselling, writing and designing websites for therapists may look like separate directions.
To me, they are connected by the same interest.
How do people understand themselves?
How do they communicate who they are?
What helps another person feel safe enough to connect with them?
For a while, I thought professionalism meant removing too much of myself from the answer.
The result could look polished and credible.
But it could also feel strangely generic.
There is nothing wrong with appearing professional.
The question is whether professionalism is supporting the work or concealing the person doing it.
I don’t want my work to depend on disclosing every part of my life.
But I also don’t want to erase the experiences that shaped how I see the work.
My experience of ADHD matters.
My experience of masking matters.
My sensitivity to being misunderstood matters.
Not because they qualify me to speak for everyone.
Because they influence the questions I notice and the kind of care I bring.
The Risk of Being Known
There is no version of visibility that removes the possibility of being misunderstood.
I can explain myself carefully and still be interpreted differently from how I intended.
I can write something honest and have somebody reduce it to a meaning I don’t recognise.
I can show more of myself and discover that not everyone likes what they see.
That is the risk.
But invisibility has a cost too.
If I hide every part of myself that could be misunderstood, I also hide the parts through which genuine recognition might happen.
People may approve of the safer version.
But they cannot connect deeply with someone who never quite arrives.
A Final Thought
Perhaps authenticity isn’t a choice between hiding and revealing everything.
Perhaps it is a practice of remaining connected to ourselves while deciding what the moment can hold.
Sometimes that means speaking.
Sometimes it means explaining.
Sometimes it means allowing ourselves to be seen before we can guarantee how we will be understood.
And sometimes it means keeping something private because it is still ours to protect.
The boundary will move.
What felt too vulnerable a year ago may feel natural today.
What feels shareable with one person may not belong in public.
That doesn’t make authenticity inconsistent.
It makes it human.
The question is no longer:
“How much of myself should I reveal?”
It is:
“Can I make this choice without leaving myself behind?”
Because being authentic doesn’t mean everyone gets access.
It means the person deciding what to share is still you.