We crave authenticity

And yet, we don’t choose to be real. We simply forget to be fake.

93,523 views. My biggest peak in audience.

October. The month after my father passed away.

A friend whispered to me, "It’s because your content breathes authenticity."

We often think authenticity is a choice. But the rawest, most powerful kind isn’t. It erupts when the mind trembles, when it sheds its filters and masks.

Sometimes, grief rips it out of us. Sometimes, it’s joy. A victory, a burst of laughter, a moment when everything aligns, and we forget ourselves. In those moments, there’s no effort, no image to uphold.

What if authenticity wasn’t light or shadow, but the tearing of both? The kind that emerges when everything collapses—when the autopilot of our inner Tesla fails, and we crash spectacularly.

Sometimes, we don’t “bounce back.” We crawl. We move forward—not with the wind in our sails, but with sand in our mouths, scraped knees, and no damn certainty. This isn’t inspiring content. This is life, raw and bleeding. And in the wreckage… a strange, unexpected lightness.

There’s a difference between chosen authenticity and imposed authenticity. One is a conscious effort. The other crashes through us.

And yet, social media would have us believe that authenticity is a skill, a product, a strategy to master. It’s packaged. Scripted. Influencers curate every vulnerable moment, choreograph their tears, schedule their laughter. They dissect spontaneity until it’s hollow.

But how do you manufacture something that, by nature, refuses to be controlled?

That’s the paradox: my posts in October didn’t resonate because they were sincere. They struck a chord because, neurologically, I was incapable of doing otherwise.

The irony of the AI debate? We fear it because it imitates us. But it’s precisely our own inability, at times, to imitate ourselves that makes us inimitable.

AI replicates our masks. It will never know what happens when they fall.

MD