What does being authentic mean to you?

And how it is something that becomes easier with age

It has taken me a while to become authentic. Even saying the word out loud, and I feel nauseous because it’s been hijacked by the self-care movement. It conjures up images of aromatherapy candles, being super earnest, sitting cross legged on the floor eating mung beans, Birkenstock sandals…I’m digressing. The word authentic is overused but it is still very relevant.

It is the thing you become once all the expectations fall away.

If you’ve ever tried to peel an egg you’ve probably noticed that the following happens; you run the egg under the cold tap, you tap it on the counter, you start to peel the shell away, and it either comes away in one clean sweep, and it gives you a shiver of satisfaction at a job well done, or it comes away in bits, takes most of the inner bit of the egg away too, until you have this weird, white, tissue-part of the egg covered in shell and the yellow yolk has exploded and run down your arm, and you end up throwing it into the bin in a fit of rage.

The peeling of the egg is a bit like how I feel about my authentic self. When I was young I was the egg and the shell was all the things other people wanted me to be. So things like:

Funny but not so funny that it was weird

Attractive but not in a threatening way

Hard working but not a workaholic or a bitch treading on my colleagues toes

Flirty but not in a whoreish way like I’m about to steal your boyfriend

Knowledgeable but not boring or hectoring or shouty, definitely not lecturing and being superior

Nice but not boring nice

I got the odd tap now and then and a bit of the real me, the inside, the eggy inside, would ooze out, and this would usually happen when I’d had a few drinks, at about three in the morning, in the back of a taxi, or when really hungover, and wishing I was dead. This is when the true me would come out. It was messy and not very easy to get on with. Belligerant even.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ people would say and they’d roll their eyes.

Then the shell would be stuck back on, patched up, and I’d go back to being the things that other people wanted me to be. Then middle age came, perimenopause, grief, parenting, Covid, work, relationships going sour, and the egg wasn’t so much tapped, but it was slammed against the sink, and it was messy, yolk oozing out and, the funny white thin layer stuck under the fingers, half cooked inside but still runny on one side, shell on the floor in little shards that looked like tiny teeth.

What was left behind was messy but it was definitely authentic.

This runny/blob egg walked about, and it didn’t give one entire shit about what the world thought of it. It wore a baseball cap and tracksuit pants and smoked cigarettes in full view of the neighbours. It gave up booze and mainlined reality TV as an alternative escape. It wrote books about highly personal things, things that you aren’t supposed to talk about like sex, grief and why everyone hates their jobs these days. It met people and the first thing it told them about itself was the miscarriages, the death, the chaos. It found it hard to do bants. There was no way of putting that damned shell back on.

I often think it’s a shame that this authentic thing often happens when you get older, and can see the coffin at the end of the runway. It sounds morbid but the closer you get to your own mortality, the less you want to please others. There may be those who are still stuck in their shells, but I’d argue it’s much better to access the messy, ugly, slightly peculiar thing inside that is you. Access it soon or else.

Then I think about people in the public eye who have been authentic all their lives and I wonder how they’ve done that. How is it possible to really not care right from the start? Sinead O’Connor comes to mind as she’s just passed, and all the accounts of her are of a woman who didn’t give a crap about others’ opinions. Who bought her authentic self to everything, and was way ahead of her time. She seemed to be born that way. So many great artists are like this- authentic from the beginning and that’s why we are so drawn to them - their lack of fear, their desire to be themselves and tell the truth about their lives, their sheer courage in not conforming to what others' want them to be. This is what makes them different and why we want to watch them perform. They speak to our insides and our desire to be free.

I also think about booze and how drinking is often the way that people get in touch with this authentic side. How when you’re drunk you say the things that you wished you hadn’t, and confess things and are dirty and bonkers, and then feel ashamed the next day. That it is only really possible to dance when drunk, and is super super hard to do this sober (this is one aspect I miss from my drinking days).

One of the single most best things about getting older is the fact that you can finally be the person you actually are. The one who has moods and is unpredictable and has hairs on their toes. The one who wonders what their last meal might be, and how long it will stay in their tummy after they’ve died (apparently if your stomach is empty it means you died 4-6 hours ago but will you continue digesting if you’ve just died or does it just stop?) It helps with friendships (are you being you?). It helps with decisions (is this somewhere I want to be?) It helps with time management (Is this thing I am doing right now helping me be more me?)

When my late father was younger, and I was a teenager I used to tease him mercilessly about his long hair.

‘You look silly Dad. You look like an ageing hippie.’

My dad would smile this wry smile and he’d take a slow drag on his pipe (before his vaping days), and look at me with his crinkly, brown eyes.

‘I don’t care what anyone thinks about my hair,’ he’d reply, ‘I like it just as it is thanks.’

He had in fact fast tracked to authenticity. He didn’t care at all.

Perhaps this is how it works- this epiphany. Perhaps he had the idea that he wouldn’t live to a ripe old age. That he had to be himself right away or he’d risk always being trapped in others’ wants and expectations.

In my dreams I see him floating, he is holding a giant ball of sun in his arms. I see him from the side like you see stained glass angels- the dark profile against extreme light.

I know it is my sister that he holds in these arms. I know this more than I know my own name.

His hair is long, longer in fact than I’ve ever seen it, and tied back so you can see his strong profile. He never speaks and I know that it isn’t possible for spirits to speak to us with words but I can tell he is finally happy.

Don’t waste any more time my love. Be the mess. Be you.