The Day I Became “Authentic”

A decade ago, in a training room, we were asked to introduce ourselves with an adjective that started with the same letter as our name. My name begins with A. I should have had options — plenty of them. But, instead, I froze, as if I had lost all my vocabulary.

The line moved on for other people to speak. And then, it came back to me again. Still nothing.

Inside, a strange kind of commentary had already begun. Really? Not one word? Come on, say something. Anything. Why is this taking so long?

And then, after what felt like a long, slightly uncomfortable stretch of silence — as if I was stuck with that annoying buffering circle on a screen — one word emerged: Authentic.

People nodded, with little surprise too why it took so long. We smiled, joked. It sounded right.

I didn’t know then that this word would stay with me for years — not as an answer, but as a question. I stayed with it. I still write it as my first value.

And yet, I kept asking: What does authenticity even mean?

When we see someone’s “True Colors”

From the other side of the table, we seem to know exactly what authenticity looks like. When someone behaves in a way we don’t expect, sometimes we’re quick to say: “Okay. So, this is your true color!”

We use that phrase very casually. It may feel like a great insight into someone, but it’s not. It’s just convenient. Because what we’re actually doing is this: Taking one moment → Preferring or disliking it → Turning it into someone’s entire identity.

We mistake a moment for the person.

And interestingly, even our judgment in that moment — sharp, certain, conclusive — can itself become our “true colour” in someone else’s eyes. No wonder we say “Everyone’s so judgmental these days” — generalisation of moments into identity of that person and everyone else too.

The Authenticity that felt partially absent

But from the inside, authenticity doesn’t feel that clear. In fact, it often feels… incomplete.

When I tried to be calm, composed, patient in a difficult situation, I felt inauthentic. Something in me would say: You’re leaving something out. You should speak up. Say what’s true.

When I was assertive, pushing back, naming what felt unjust, another voice would step in: This isn’t the whole picture either. Don’t you have something thoughtful to say?

When I was thoughtful, strategic, measured, there was still a quiet sense that something more alive — more spontaneous, even a little mystical — was missing.

No matter which version of me showed up, something always felt… partially absent.

The Feedback That Didn’t Add Up

I felt someday I will figure out. Sometimes, people’s feedback tells us about who we are. Over the years, people helped me understand myself.

Sometimes, I was a“good girl”, which apparently meant polite, nice, unopinionated … slightly childish, but acceptable. Then completely crazy — when I disagreed too directly. Then surprisingly goofy — “I can’t believe you can be this silly!” Then too intense — “Do you really think this much about things?” 

At some point, I had to ask something important —  If all of this was me… then what exactly were my “true colors”? And more importantly — who was deciding which one counted?

What if the question of who I am itself is off

Most of us respond to the inauthenticity feeling with a familiar move: find the right version. The one that’s consistent. The one people respond to. The one that finally stops feeling like a performance. We go looking for it — in therapy, in feedback, in reinvention, and sometimes in entirely different environments, jobs or cities.

The looking isn’t the problem. The assumption underneath it is.

That question can itself be confusing. Because the idea of authenticity rests on one assumption: That there is one true self — stable, consistent, waiting to be expressed correctly. But that assumption doesn’t hold up under experience. What shows up instead is something far less tidy.

We’re not one self, not even a clean whole. But a set of orientations — with internal and external responses that contradict each other, take turns leading, and each feel completely valid when they are present.

So when we say “Be yourself”, which side are we referring to? And what happens to the rest?

At this point, the question “Am I being authentic?” starts to feel… insufficient.

Every Version is True and has a role

Looking more closely, the different versions weren’t random. Each one was trying to do something.

• The calm part was trying to preserve dignity.
• The rebellious part was trying to protect what mattered.
• The strategic part was trying to make things work.
• The playful part was trying to keep life alive.
• The mystical part was looking at the larger possibilities.

They weren’t inconsistencies. They were responses — each carrying a certain kind of intelligence. And yet, none of them, on their own, felt complete.

Because each one solved for something… while leaving something else out.

When Parts Don’t Even Recognise Each Other

The difficulty isn’t that these parts exist. It’s that they don’t always even recognise each other. Sometimes, when one part is active, another would react as if it doesn’t belong.

“Who is this?”, they might ask. And not always with curiosity, but often with alienation, judgement or contempt.

The composed, thoughtful part would feel uneasy with the messy, emotional one. The emotional part would look back and feel — this is too controlled, too polished, fake.

The part that wanted to push back would experience the calmer part as lacking courage. The calmer part would see the rebellious one as excessive, even unnecessary.

When this happens, it may not feel like many sides of me. It may feel like different people taking turns… without introduction.

Why Authenticity Felt So Difficult to Live

So, authenticity wasn’t just about being honest. It became a deeper question: Can I be this version of myself without pushing the others out of the room?

And very often, the answer was no. Something would always get sidelined.

This is why — even when I was being real — it didn’t always feel like integrity.

When Recognition Begins

So, what changes if these parts are no longer strangers? Not when they fully agree. Not when they merge. But just recognise and accept without judgement.

The thinking part can be present without dismissing what is being felt. The emotional part can be present without rejecting what is being understood. The playful part doesn’t have to hide. The serious part doesn’t have to apologise.

Nothing disappears. But something relaxes. Because the question quietly shifts from “Who is this?” to “This too is me.”

Where Coherence Comes In

This is one area where I find the idea of coherence useful. Not as a state you achieve once and for all — but as a capacity we practice. The capacity to:

• notice which part is leading
• stay aware of what else is present
• and respond without abandoning ourselves in the process

We will still fragment. 

We will still over-identify with one version. But something changes over time. We return faster, recognise sooner and integrate with less effort. Not because we’ve become fixed or resolved forever — but because our parts are no longer strangers to one another.

And something else shifts, quietly. When parts recognise each other, you don’t become calmer or more consistent — at least not in the way that phrase usually implies. You become more available. The composed part doesn’t have to pretend the emotional one isn’t there. The rebellious part doesn’t have to fight for airtime. You can be strategic and still know what you actually feel about the strategy. You can push back and hold the other person’s reality at the same time. Not because you’ve resolved anything — but because the different things in you are finally in the same room, talking.

That changes the quality of everything. Decisions, disagreements, rest. Even silence starts to feel different when it isn’t holding something down.

Back where we started

I still think about that moment in the training room. Why I couldn’t answer quickly. Was it hesitation, confusion or something else?

Maybe it wasn’t emptiness. Maybe it was… too much. Too many parts, all trying to find a word that didn’t leave the others out. Maybe it was that no single word felt large enough.

And when the word finally came — authentic — it didn’t feel clever. It felt… lived, coherent. Not because it defined me perfectly. But because, in that moment, something in me wasn’t being excluded.

A Small Reflection

The next time you feel “inauthentic,” you don’t have to rush to fix it. You could simply ask:

• Which part of me is here right now?
• What else is present, even if it’s quiet?
• Am I choosing — or just defaulting?

You don’t need to express everything. But you also don’t need to disappear from yourself to belong.

A Different Question

Maybe authenticity was never about finding one true self. Maybe it is about learning how to stay in relationship with the many selves you already are — without losing yourself to any one of them.

That’s not a smaller answer. It’s just a truer one.

Read more about Fragmentation and Coherence.