Authenticity is one of the great ideals of our time.
We are told to find ourselves.
To follow our inner voice.
To discover who we really are.
Every age has its guiding promise. The Middle Ages promised salvation. The nineteenth century promised progress. Our age seems to promise authenticity.
The assumption is simple enough. Somewhere beneath expectations, obligations, social roles, and conventions lies a true self waiting to be discovered. The task of life is to uncover that self and express it.
I spent a considerable part of my life trying to do exactly that.
Not because authenticity is worthless.
But because I have come to suspect that it is overrated.
When I look at the people I admire, something strikes me.
They rarely seem preoccupied with expressing themselves.
The good father is not always authentic.
The good teacher is not always authentic.
The reliable friend is not always authentic.
Often they would rather be doing something else.
Often they are tired.
Distracted.
Unmotivated.
And yet they do what needs to be done.
As a single father, I know the difference well.
When my daughter wants to tell me about something that happened at school, I am not always in the mood to listen. Sometimes I would rather return to my book, my thoughts, or simply enjoy a few quiet minutes alone.
Yet years from now, I doubt I will remember the chapter I was reading.
I suspect I will remember the conversation.
Modern culture spends a great deal of time talking about the importance of being true to ourselves.
It spends much less time talking about the importance of being true to others.
Yet it is precisely these commitments that give shape to a life.
Perhaps this points to a misunderstanding at the heart of modern life.
We often treat life as an archaeological excavation. Somewhere deep inside ourselves lies a hidden treasure waiting to be uncovered.
But what if there is no treasure?
What if the self is not something we discover but something we build?
A house is not uncovered.
It is constructed.
One decision at a time.
One responsibility at a time.
One commitment at a time.
Perhaps character is formed in much the same way.
Not by digging deeper into ourselves, but by gradually becoming the kind of person our responsibilities require us to be.
A parent.
A friend.
A craftsman.
A citizen.
Albert Camus famously wrote that we must imagine Sisyphus happy.
Not because Sisyphus had found himself.
Not because he was authentic.
But because he had accepted his task.
I am not sure authenticity is a particularly good life goal.
It may protect us from conformity.
It may help us remain honest.
But it answers none of the larger questions.
It does not tell us what we owe to others.
It does not tell us what we are responsible for.
It does not tell us what to do when our desires collide with our obligations.
The older I get, the less interested I become in the question of whether I am being authentic.
A different question seems more important.
What am I willing to take responsibility for?
Because perhaps character does not emerge from endlessly exploring ourselves.
Perhaps it emerges from the things we are willing to serve.
The modern obsession with authenticity assumes that the self is the most important thing in the room.
Life has taught me otherwise.
The most meaningful things that have happened to me usually began when my attention moved away from myself and toward something that mattered more.