the authenticity industrial complex

and the currency of vulnerability

Once upon a time, not so long ago in human history, authenticity was the domain of philosophers and existentialists. It was a concept to be pondered in smoke-filled Parisian cafes, debated in the hallowed halls of academia, or scribbled about in leather-bound journals by tortured artists seeking their true essence. Sartre grappled with it in his theory of existential authenticity, Heidegger explored it through the lens of Being, and entire schools of thought were devoted to unraveling its meaning.

Fast forward to today, and authenticity has undergone a startling metamorphosis. No longer the exclusive purview of deep thinkers and angsty creatives, it has been franchised, packaged, and sold back to us with a glossy finish and a hefty price tag. The pursuit of the genuine has become, paradoxically, one of the most artificial endeavors of our time.

Enter the Authenticity Industrial Complex — a term I've coined to capture this modern phenomenon. Like a voracious weed, it has sprouted in the fertile soil of our collective insecurities, feeding on our deep-seated fear of being inauthentic or, worse, unoriginal. This complex ecosystem of commodified genuineness manifests in myriad ways: Self-help gurus peddle "authentic living" seminars at exorbitant prices, tech startups promise apps that will unlock your "true self" with just a few taps, and social media influencers build empires on the back of carefully choreographed candor, their "unfiltered" lives meticulously filtered for maximum engagement.

And in the marketplace of modern identity, vulnerability has become the hottest commodity. We trade in confessions and revelations, each disclosure a token in the endless game of proving our authenticity. But this commodification of vulnerability has led to a curious inversion - the more we share, the less genuine it can feel. This dynamic has given rise to what we might call "performative vulnerability," where our moments of weakness and struggle are carefully packaged for public consumption. It's emotional strip-mining, where we dig ever deeper into our psyches in search of fresh material to prove our authenticity.

As the bar for what constitutes "authentic" content continues to rise, we find ourselves in an authenticity arms race. Today's raw, unfiltered confession becomes tomorrow's cliché, forcing us to dig ever deeper, to expose ever more, in our quest to appear genuine. This escalation has led to a kind of authenticity inflation, where the value of sincerity is constantly being devalued. In this environment, even our most heartfelt moments can start to feel like just another transaction in the attention economy.

In our relentless pursuit of effortless authenticity, we've somehow managed to demonize the very act of trying. "Try-hard" has morphed from a description into an insult, and visible effort is often dismissed as the antithesis of cool. But let's pause and challenge this notion. Isn't there something beautifully, vulnerably human about the act of trying? Consider the raw authenticity in watching a child learn to walk, falling and getting up again and again. Their effort isn't hidden; it's gloriously obvious and all the more endearing for it. Or think of the musician, fingers bleeding from hours of practice, striving to master a difficult piece. The struggle itself is a form of authenticity that we've lost sight of in our culture's rush to crown the effortlessly perfect.

This aversion to visible effort has seeped into every corner of our lives. In the world of art and creativity, we've become enamored with the myth of effortless genius, overlooking the countless hours of practice and failed attempts that precede any masterpiece. Job seekers are advised to appear confident but not eager, passionate but not desperate. Even in romance, we play elaborate games of who-cares-less, as if caring deeply and showing it is somehow a sign of weakness. But what if we've got it all backwards? What if the most radical act of authenticity in our era of calculated nonchalance is to let ourselves be seen in the vulnerable, often unglamorous act of trying?

Imagine a world where we celebrated effort as much as achievement. Where a student's earnest attempts at understanding complex topics were valued as highly as natural brilliance. Where an entrepreneur's failed ventures were seen not as embarrassments to be hidden, but as badges of courage and learning. Where we could openly admit to practicing our "spontaneous" speeches or working hard on our "effortless" style. This world would be messier, certainly, but also more honest, more encouraging, and paradoxically, more authentically human.

You see, even our most mundane moments have become potential fodder for the authenticity mill. The unopened copy of the latest bestselling self-help book prominently displayed on our bedside table — a beacon of our unwavering commitment to personal growth. The cashmere sweater from a sustainable brand on our Instagram feed — a sartorial manifesto of ethical consumption. Here's the rub: the more consciously we strive for authenticity, the more elusive it becomes. It's akin to trying to fall asleep by sheer force of will - the harder you try, the more it slips away. This authenticity paradox is the Gordian knot of our digital age.

Perhaps no performance is more meticulously choreographed than the ostensibly candid snapshot of our lives.

The photo dump, with its artfully disheveled array of blurry selfies, half-eaten meals, and inexplicable close-ups of household objects, is less a window into our authentic lives and more a stage-managed production of what we think authenticity should look like. It's as if we're all competing in an Olympic event for the most convincingly unconvincing display of nonchalance. There's even viral recipe videos for the perfect photo dump. One part 'candid' shot of friends laughing (carefully angled to catch everyone's good side), two parts aesthetic minutiae (think artisanal coffee cups or sun-dappled leaves), and a dash of self-deprecating humor (preferably in the form of an unflattering, yet somehow still flattering, selfie). Season liberally with vintage-style filters and serve immediately to your hungry followers.

In our desperate attempts to appear casual and authentic, we've created a new set of rigid social media norms that are anything but. We're not breaking free from the chains of curated perfection; we're simply exchanging them for a different set, albeit ones adorned with a veneer of studied carelessness.

This performative candidness extends beyond just photo dumps. Consider the phenomenon of 'plandid' photos - those staged candid shots that populate our feeds. We spend inordinate amounts of time trying to capture that perfect moment of unselfconsciousness, as if authenticity were something that could be achieved through meticulous planning and multiple retakes. It's a peculiar form of social media theatre, where we're simultaneously the director, the actor, and the audience, all engaged in a collective suspension of disbelief.

I've been thinking a lot about this topic lately, largely because of my best friend Madeline. Her journey has been a fascinating case study in the pursuit of genuine self-expression, and it's made me question my own stance on the matter. A few months ago, Madeline confided in me about a breakthrough she'd had in therapy. She'd been feeling lost, unsure of her place in the world, and found herself asking her therapist in exasperation, "How do people even know who they are?" Her therapist simply asked her, "What are your top three values?"

Her therapist suggested she spend some time thinking about it, and then try to live in accordance with those values she identified.

When Madeline shared this exercise with me cuddled on her couch a few weeks later, her eyes were alight with excitement. She'd found the process so illuminating that she asked me about my values too. As we sat there, dissecting our beliefs and motivations, I was struck by how differently we approached the concept of authenticity.

For Madeline, authenticity had emerged as one of her top three values, nestled comfortably alongside gratitude and open-mindedness. It made sense for her — having spent so much of her life in the closet, the freedom to be her true self was something she now cherished deeply. Her journey from concealment to openness had imbued authenticity with a near-sacred quality in her eyes.

But here's where Madeline and I diverge: authenticity doesn't even crack my top ten values. Currently joy-seeking, diligence, and gratitude, if you are curious. And I would love to hear yours.

Don't get me wrong; I do value honesty, loyalty, and integrity. But authenticity? It's a concept I've grown increasingly wary of, especially in our hyper-connected digital age.

You see, I've come to view my online presence as a performance, and I'm perfectly comfortable with that. The "me" that exists in the digital realm is carefully curated, a version of myself tailored for public consumption. It's not fake, per se, but it's certainly not the unfiltered, "authentic" me that the cult of genuineness seems to demand. This performative aspect of my online persona isn't deception - it's a form of protection. In a world where privacy is increasingly scarce, where every utterance can be screenshotted, shared, and scrutinized ad infinitum, maintaining a degree of separation between my public and private selves feels not just prudent, but necessary.

To me, there's a different kind of authenticity to be found in the conscious choice to keep parts of ourselves private. It's an authenticity that acknowledges the multifaceted nature of our identities, that recognizes the value in maintaining boundaries, in curating different aspects of ourselves for different contexts.

Watching Madeline live by her values has been beautiful, to say the least. And we’ve started asking everyone their top three values - it's become our conversation starter, our way of quickly diving deep into the essence of what drives people. It's a shortcut to intimacy, a way to bypass small talk and delve into the core of someone's identity. This practice has led to some fascinating discoveries and unexpectedly profound conversations with strangers and friends alike. Through these exchanges, I've come to a realization: while Madeline finds freedom in openness, I find security in curation. Our contrasting approaches highlight a broader truth — maybe it isn't about adhering to some universal standard of 'realness,' but about staying true to our own values and boundaries, whatever they may be.

And I couldn’t help but wonder (Carrie Bradshaw voice): could the truest form of authenticity be the courage to define it for ourselves? In that sense, Madeline and I, with our drastically different approaches, might just be the most authentic versions of ourselves after all.