As kids, we ran full speed at the swimming pool even though the signs said not to—because we knew the faster we ran, the bigger the splash.

We made up rules for a game that involved throwing a tennis ball against a brick wall—not because it made sense, but because it was ours.

We stared at the classroom clock, counting down the final seconds of the last period—not because we were tired, but because it meant we could bolt outside and claim our favorite swing.

Recess wasn’t leisure. It was life.

We called each other after school just to plan the next time we’d see each other. “Sleepover” meant more than sleeping over—it meant a full, conspiratorial world built on snacks, secrets, and shared laughter in the dark.

And then—slowly—things began to change.

Classes were no longer structured around recess. The clock we once watched with anticipation became a countdown to exams. We stopped running at the pool—not because we learned discipline, but because we forgot the thrill. Our phone calls became shorter. Our friend groups shifted. Sleepovers turned into study nights. Some of us moved. Others drifted. And those we once couldn’t imagine a day without slowly became names we haven’t said in years.

And so we changed too.

We didn’t lose our authenticity all at once.
We traded it away, incrementally.
A little less truth in exchange for approval.
A little more polish in place of presence.
At some point, we stopped playing for fun and started auditioning for acceptance.

What Keeps Us From Returning

So why don’t we just go back? Why can’t we simply drop the act and reclaim who we were?

Because the act didn’t appear out of nowhere—it was built, layer by layer, to protect us. It isn’t vanity. It’s armor. But like any armor, over time it becomes heavy. Restrictive. And eventually, we forget how to move without it.

❖ Fear of Rejection

At the root of nearly all our posturing is this: the fear that if we show who we really are, we will be abandoned.

We learned early that honesty had consequences. That being “too much” or “too different” or “too sensitive” often led to being left out, talked about, or shamed. We internalized the idea that survival requires fitting in.

And so we shape-shift. We calculate. We offer fragments of ourselves, always withholding the part we fear will be too much—or not enough.

But even when we’re accepted, the fear persists, because deep down we know: they didn’t accept me—they accepted the mask I made for them. And so, paradoxically, our fear of rejection ends up causing the very isolation we hoped to avoid.

We are surrounded, perhaps even admired—and still feel profoundly unseen.

❖ The Gaze of Imagined Others

We often act as if we’re being observed, even when no one is around.

We speak more carefully than we need to. We dress for occasions that don’t exist. We interrupt joy with questions like, What would they think if they saw me like this?

The “they” is fluid. It could be our parents, a boss, a childhood bully, a religious figure, or a hypothetical stranger on social media. But the effect is the same: we live under an internalized audience.

Jean-Paul Sartre called it “the look”—the sense that we become objects under someone else’s gaze. That gaze doesn’t need to be real. It only needs to be believed.

We laugh a little quieter. We dance a little less freely.
And eventually, we forget what it feels like to be unobserved at all.

❖ Role Entrapment

We are not just individuals—we are roles with resumes.

The dependable one. The funny one. The overachiever. The fixer. The helper. The “strong friend.” We build these identities not out of ego, but out of necessity. They earned us affection, respect, safety.

But over time, the role becomes a script. The script becomes a cage.

We smile through exhaustion. We make the joke even when we’re breaking. We help everyone else because we fear what we might face if we sat still with ourselves. We stay composed because someone, somewhere, might need us to be okay.

And when people applaud us—“You’re so strong,” “I don’t know how you do it”—we feel the weight of it. Because the applause isn’t for us. It’s for the role.

❖ Moral Perfectionism

Many of us were raised to believe that our worth was measured in moral terms.

Be humble. Be pure. Be selfless. Be righteous.

And over time, we equate authenticity with danger. If we say what we really feel—rage, lust, doubt, confusion—we might not just be disliked. We might be condemned.

So we become polite. Reserved. Spiritually presentable.

We nod through sermons that shame us. We smile at family gatherings where silence is safer than truth.

But beneath that choreography lives a tangle of real feelings—feelings that long to be named, not judged.

To live authentically, we don’t need to rebel against faith. But we may need to disentangle morality from conformity. We may need to trust that God, if real, sees us fully—and invites us anyway.

❖ Censorship of Complex Feelings

Modern society tolerates a narrow emotional palette.

Gratitude? Yes. Compassion? Yes. Pride? Careful. Jealousy? Keep it to yourself. Despair? That’s for therapists. Anger? Only if it’s the “right” kind.

We crop our emotional reality into something lovable and normal. But authenticity lives in the unedited footage.

We are not clean. We are not linear. We contradict ourselves.

And when we suppress that complexity, we don’t become more stable—we become less alive.

Practices for Reclamation

• Reverse-engineer joy: Think back to the last time we felt unfiltered happiness—something simple, unplanned, and real. Who were we with? What did our face feel like when it wasn’t being managed? Joy is not frivolous—it’s a compass. By following it, we return to ourselves.
• Audit your masks: Reflect on the roles we play—at work, with family, in public. Where do we feel most artificial? Which parts of ourselves are edited, exaggerated, or hidden? Begin noticing—not judging. The moment we become aware of the mask is the moment we can begin to loosen it.
• Engage in creative play (with others if possible): Revisit something playful with no intention of being good at it. Doodle. Play catch. Build a fort. Better yet, find others willing to look ridiculous together. A group of people playing badly is more sacred than a room full of people performing well.

Becoming Ourselves Again

Imagine what it might be like to drop our armor completely—even for a moment. Picture a day where we move through the world as easily as a child chasing bubbles on a summer lawn. In the morning, we wake up and feel no need to brace ourselves for battle or performance. Our first thought is not “What do others expect of us today?” but “What do we honestly feel like doing today?”

We might twirl once in the kitchen just because the sun is streaming through the window and a good song is on. When we meet a friend, we don’t scan ourselves to ensure we’re acting “normal” enough; we simply greet them with the warmth and openness we actually feel inside.

In this vision of authenticity reclaimed, life regains a certain vividness. Colors seem brighter, food tastes richer, conversations go deeper. We listen more intently and speak more freely, because we’re no longer calculating every word. We find that people start to meet our eyes in a new way—perhaps because we are truly present for the first time in a long time. There’s a lightness in our step. That knot of tension between our shoulder blades (the one we grew so used to we forgot it was there) begins to loosen. We breathe easier. We might even laugh a bit louder, from the belly, not worrying if our laugh is too weird or too loud. We may feel a strange, profound calm, as if finally we are living in our own skin and not trying to crawl out of it.

Each day that we choose to remove a piece of that psychological armor, we move closer to that greatest accomplishment. We come home to the self we left behind in childhood—waiting patiently, with open arms, ready to play once more.

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson