About Authenticity

I used to carry a quiet pride in being authentic. For me, authenticity meant speaking as I thought and doing as I spoke, with the intention of helping others—even if my words stung. Growing up in a family where criticism was constant and compliments rare, I believed I had already softened the edges by only speaking when I thought it would help. I was careful to qualify my biases, to keep my tone matter‑of‑fact rather than blaming. And because I had traveled to nearly forty countries, I carried a confidence that my thoughts were shaped by experience and openness, not just borrowed from books or hearsay.

That confidence showed up in my work. When my boss asked me to move an exhibition to appease a government official, I refused. It wasn’t about convenience—it was about professionalism, about respecting the people we had already invited. Another time, when a trainee from an untouchable caste was shut down by a colleague with a prestigious background, I pushed back in front of everyone. For me, authenticity was protection: of my work, my organization, my colleagues, and sometimes even the very people I criticized. I wasn’t trying to put anyone down. I was trying to guard what mattered.

But then came my relationship, and everything I thought I knew about authenticity began to unravel. My partner was triggered by my honest opinions, hearing them as criticism. He often sought reassurance, but praise felt hollow to me, almost inauthentic. It was a very challenging time for me—I was caught between my instinct to speak truth and the awareness that my words could wound someone already insecure. I began to pray he wouldn’t ask for feedback, because I knew I couldn’t give it in the way he needed.

That was the first time I realized that authenticity could be literally disastrous, bringing emotional turmoil. I started to be a little fearful to act authentically. I also began to understand that sometimes people don’t need fixing; they need support, presence, encouragement. I tried to take a middle path—minimal comments, listening more, offering presence instead of words. I doubted a little whether authenticity was truly caring and protective.

Over time, I also came to see that people rarely change just because of someone else’s advice or comment. Change is deeply personal, and unless a person wants it for themselves, my words--even with the most genuine intentions--cannot make it happen. I learnt this the hard way, watching how my attempts to help repeatedly fell flat or even created resistance in someone I loved. This realization shifted my sense of authenticity: It is not about speaking truth for the sake of correction, but about respecting the limits of my influence on others.

Later, through professional development, I also repeatedly learned that difficult conversations require techniques and intentions if the ultimate goal is to influence change. Simply saying what I think will not work—it requires structure, timing, and an awareness of people’s defense mechanisms. These trainings convinced me that active listening is a very important skill, and it helps us uncover what's behind the words expressed by others, allowing us to probe for more with the right questions and find the root problem. These trainings made me question my version of authenticity--which now feels like me only interested in expressing myself and less in understanding others.

It was an extremely gruelling change for me as it involved my very core. I am still largely unsure of how to act, but I have learnt to practice my authenticity through listening, being present, noticing what someone does well, and pointing that out. Vulnerability remains part of me—I’ve always been transparent and trusting—but I am aware that discernment is also authentic: knowing when to speak and when silence is care.

Given all the above, perhaps I am not ready to let go of having a sharp authenticity when situations require--for protecting my work, my organization, or people around me. But when the stakes are low, I should learn to let go and keep my opinion to myself.