"This is perhaps the greatest risk any of us will take- to be seen as we truly are."
Cinderella

Let's just say it has been a discomforting month.

Any topic which forces you to examine who you are at your core is bound to be a little challenging and this theme of authenticity has over-delivered on anticipations.

My exploration took me from the field of philosophy with Charles Taylor's examination of the notion in 'The Ethics of Authenticity' to the enjoyable and often hilarious British comedy 'Miranda'. I moved through Brene Brown's 'Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead' and found inspiration in Hiccup's counter cultural example in 'How to Train Your Dragon'. Richard Rohr rounded out the quest in his spiritually focused 'Immortal Diamond: The Search for our True Self'.

So what exactly does it mean to 'be authentic'? Is it an adherence to the current feelings or notions of what is 'true' for me right now? At this particular stage in my life I can hit heights of immense love and awe in one moment, and be livid with rage and frustration the very next. Which 'me' is the essence that I should identify with?

After a particularly taxing 'parenting fail' experience during the month, I came to the conclusion that the Enneagram has a lot to offer in distinguishing the core of my personality type and the external pressures or inspirations that impact upon that. I also delved into the past to figure out why I have clothed myself in the particular persona of 'nice Emma' and how I am in the process of shedding that cocoon.

Yet a mere focus on 'self' is not a complete answer to the deeper question posed by authenticity.

Charles Taylor puts it beautifully when he proposes:

"There is a certain way of being human that is my way. I am called to live my life in this way, and not in imitation of anyone else's... If I am not, I miss the point of my life, I miss what being human is for me".

Taylor suggests that authenticity is the process of discovery (in dialogue with others around us) in "finding the design of my life myself, against the demand of external conformity". A destination that we can only achieve once we realise that "this sentiment connects us to a wider whole".

The profound nature of his examination is this: If we each truly were to pursue the concept of authenticity in our own lives, there would be no concept of scarcity, of rivalry, of hierarchy. If every person were to truly realise there is a unique nature to their own experiences, creativity and insights about the world and seek to develop that AND that this is the case for each other human on the planet, we would be able to exist in a peaceful and thriving society.

Rohr echoes this concept and takes it further, proposing each of us possesses a True Self, an imprint of God himself that is as utterly unique as our fingerprint. He says "life is not a matter of creating a special name for ourselves, but of uncovering the name we have always had". He affirms the view of Franciscan philosopher, John Duns Scotus who states that each soul has a unique 'thisness' and God created "only specific and unique incarnations of the Eternal Mystery- each one chosen, loved and preserved in existence as itself- by being itself".

That blows my mind.

We spend so much of our lives comparing, shrinking and conforming- scarcely realising we each have something incredible and unique to offer.

If Hiccup had fallen into line behind his imposing Chieftain father, accepting the narrative that he must emulate a 'proper Viking' and kill dragons to protect his people, the island of Berk would never have dreamed of the intimacy and thrill of partnering with dragons as their riders. If he had instead felt shame over his non-conformity and allowed that message to overwhelm him, there would be no poignant tale, only the fable of a community driven by fear and violent tradition.

So often we applaud authenticity in others, cheering at the bravery of their vulnerability- but when it comes to our own lives, we cower and second guess our offerings. 'It's not original enough', 'They could put it so much better than I can', 'I don't have the energy to do it right now', 'I'm not creative'... We dampen our message and cast it aside, burying ourselves in the next load of washing or binge watching the latest show on Netflix.

You are the only 'you' that will ever exist on this planet.

What inspires you, makes your face light up with delight? How have you suffered and overcome the darkness? What are your stories, your fears, your desires? Damn the shows and the washing, share these gifts with the world around you and embody the 'you' that was envisaged from the origin of time!

It will take immense bravery and courage, and there is no guidebook that will set out the path for you, but if we look to each other and celebrate our attempts to unfurl, honouring the diversity that each exposed soul presents, true beauty is bound to emerge.

This piece is part of an exploration of monthly themes as a part of my resolutions for this year. For January's exposition on Hospitality see here and for February's exploration of Spirituality see here.  

I never anticipated how compelling and destabilising these monthly themes would be.

As the days of March dwindle and my reading becomes more frantic, my mind is a tanglement of thoughts, memories, emotions and sparks of insight.

Each book and blog post read, each memory processed leads to initial discomfort as I reconcile the differences with my lived experience. And then there is the breaking point, where the insight becomes more powerful than the way things are done, or the previous becomes untenable in light of the new discovery. Change occurs.

Of all of the themes, authenticity promised to be difficult. I had initial visions of whether it meant I should go make-up free but my travels have taken me in a different direction.

In this blog, I find vulnerability comes relatively easily. In person, however, I am still often stuck in the cords of social habits formed over decades and react too quickly to any perceived hint of disconnection, loss of interest or judgment.

I'm better than I used to be. Monica recently admitted that when she first met me she wondered aloud to Alex if there would be anything she could say that I wouldn't agree with. I was so annoyingly agreeable and friendly, firmly entrenched in the 'nice Emma' persona- afraid that if I let any hint of disagreement out, I would lose friends. Dave and I have an arrangement now- if he catches 'nice Emma' in conversation, he will make a not so subtle 'gun to the head' gesture. The threat has mostly been enough to kill her off!

When I was eight, it was discovered I had terrible vision. Dad was pointing out stars in the sky, a concept with which I was completely unfamiliar, being only able to clearly make out items a foot from my face. I was whisked off to the optometrist and chose my first pair of glasses. Mum tried to dissuade me, but I was firm on my choice. Thick, large, purple-rimmed frames. Add in some braces for my unfortunate fangs, a side-part slicked down and you get the picture.

Throughout primary school, I had many experiences of unrequited 'love'. From leaving a Valentine on Mark Thomas' chair in Grade Three, to my desperate wishes for David Patterson to notice me in Grade Six, it seemed that I was destined for despair. It wasn't all doom, I should admit. In our weekly orchestra practice, I developed a bantering relationship with the trumpet player and we both began looking forward to what was otherwise a fairly long afternoon of slightly off-key instruments attempting to craft classical sounds. We placed a seal of destruction on the relationship when we made it official, however, as we were suddenly unable to string words in an uttered sentence as soon as there was a label attached. My preference for the written word began to blossom as we communicated in letters instead.

Fast forward two years and I replaced the glasses for contact lenses, shed my braces and sported a shoulder-length hair cut. Suddenly, it was like the lights had been turned on, and I began to be 'noticed'. We were a small school and it was fairly common for year levels to mix. I began to hang out more with the guys in the year level above. I quickly learned who I needed to 'be' to be liked and accepted. A certain facial expression, an easy laugh, playing soccer every lunchtime. Before long, I exchanged the socially strangled relationship with Tim for a string of flirtations and an attachment to the aloof and popular Luke.

When I look back at my high school years, these events stand out in my memory. It was like I poured all my energy into figuring out who to be, and executing that with as much finesse as I could manage.

Not that I put all my eggs in that basket. Academic achievement was another seductive pull for me and I developed solid disciplines in order to ensure I was always competitive with the other smart kids in the class. In Year Nine I let my grades slide in preference to pursuing flirtations and I hated the experience at the end of the year when my best friend, Holly walked away with most of the awards. I vowed in my journal never to let that happen again!

These strains continued as I entered university- finding what I needed to do to be liked, and ensuring I was also seen as smart and dedicated. They became the armour that clothed me, my persona, container, the False Self.

Positions of influence reinforced the need to appear as if I had it all together. From the 'Youth Leader' of barely teenage girls to the devoted 'Pastor's Wife' when I married Dave- I curated the 'nice Emma' mask with care and vigilance. I thought it was what people wanted, what they needed me to be.

I know I am not alone in my need to feel liked, affirmed and accepted. Yet the ways I've gone about it in the past have often just resulted in a bespoke portrayal of self crafted to the particular audience. And there is a hollow sense of fulfillment when people only like, affirm and accept the 'you' that is held out.

After school, I began to invest in a persona that appeared well-versed in current music. One day, my legitimately band-literate friend caught me out pretending to know more about the British rock band Oasis than was actually the case. The feeling of being exposed was excruciating and the holes in my approach became clear.

I have a long way to go until my True Self is the only reality that people encounter when engaging me, but I feel as if I'm deep into the wrestle and wanting to get there somehow. I'm driven by fear, terrified of being rejected and drawn to control as a way of maneuvering these uncertain feelings.

I count myself considerably lucky to have a patient husband and friends that know and accept the messed up, neurotic, tight-fisted version that emerges at times, and love me in spite of that.

Friends like Holly who has known me since we were nine- fighting over the rules to playing 'Elastic', singing into hairbrush microphones at sleepovers and pretending we were fast asleep when our parents came to scold us. Who stuck by me even when I became a facade of myself (and a shallow friend) in the 'flirty stage'. A friend who I still catch up with as regularly as our busy lives allow and we just launch straight into the middle of a conversation without needing any pleasantries.

And like Monica, who endured eighteen months of living with me in my 'dark zone', putting up with me pretending everything was fine until a torrent would unleash at our 'house meetings' and the grievances would all come pouring out in one ugly gush. If a relationship can endure that, it becomes like steel, and she is now one of the main recipients of my shameful confessions- always providing empathy, compassion and perspective when I need it the most.

Eventually, like an emergent butterfly, I hope to shed the cocoon-like personas that have ensconced me for so long and become who I am authentically designed to be. I suspect it may be a long and rocky journey!

    

Photo taken by Matthew Edmondson

You know that nightmare where you desperately need to use the bathroom but all the toilet doors are missing? Well, that kind of happened to me this week.

We were at the airport to welcome our dear friends Alex and Monica (and their three amazing boys) back to Australia. Last year we had tearfully fare-welled them, thinking it would be unlikely that we would even get to see them again for at least five years, but in a bittersweet twist (for them) the location of realistic job prospects took them too far away from family to justify the move half a world away. Ever since they informed us that they had booked tickets to come home I had imagined going in to meet them. Eli had particularly struggled with the loss of his best friend, Chase, and has had a difficult year with friends and connecting with people since that time. In anticipation of their return, he has been busily collecting toys and presents to give to Chase, even writing a handful of notes to each person in the family, stuffing them into an empty wine bottle and asking if we could throw it into the ocean to send it to them.

We kept our plan a surprise and woke the kids up early to join the Monash parking lot, picking up a special takeaway breakfast on the way. We made it to the airport by 9:00am and the kids were remarkably patient as we stood with Alex's parents, waiting to catch the first glimpse. When the screens flashed up the familiar faces we made our way over for the first tear-stained hugs and greetings in what felt like an age. Thirty hours of travelling is enough to break anyone, let alone trying to do it with two preschoolers and a five month old, but the troopers were still standing amidst an enormous pile of luggage, delirious with relief that they had made it.

After packing them into the Combi so that they could head back to their temporary home with family, I decided to head back into the airport to use the facilities. Eli decided at the last minute to join me, not realising it was a significant walk back inside the terminal. By the time we made it through the front doors, he was regretting his choice and told me he wanted to go back. I informed him that was not possible so we pushed on. When we finally found the bathrooms, the strong smell of cleaning products acted as a forcefield that repelled Eli, him running out the door every time I tried to enter. Frustrated, we headed into the disabled toilets at the suggestion of the friendly cleaner, but the allure of those door operating buttons compelled Eli to press the shiny green one just as I had settled down.

The door began to swing open, the aspect not only towards the ladies bathrooms, but also facing directly onto the busy corridor. I leaped up to push the door shut, but it was on a course of its own design and was unresponsive to my desperate attempts. Flushed and embarrassed, I gave up, going back to the original plan of the normal facilities, but the forcefield remained strong. The incredible cleaning lady came to my rescue yet again, ushering us into the family room where we finally met with success.

On our way back to the car, Eli decided he wanted chicken nuggets, but I was in no mood to indulge after the recent battles and chaos ensued. I ended up carrying his writhing, screaming body all the way across the road, up the stairs and into the carpark. It was not one of our finest moments and the heightened emotions continued from the back seat (including several unbuckling moments while we were in a moving vehicle) for another hour.

After my 'spiritual awakening' (to borrow a Brene Brown term for breakdown) of last week, I have actually felt a lot more free. It is uncanny how simply naming the internal turmoil and expressing it can release one from its' fierce grip. Not that anything has been magically fixed or changed, but at the very least I no longer have the battle raging in my mind. It has also been a massive case of the shedding of my persona/stage mask to reveal the 'shadow self' underneath.

I've accepted help from all avenues, from extra outings for Eli with our friends Dwain and Jane, going out for wine with Allie, to crashing at Mum's all day Tuesday, even getting to go out for coffee with my two sisters during crazy hour while Mum and Dad wrangled the kids. Pat came over on Friday night so that Dave and I could have a date night to see 'Mockingjay: Part 2', and I had a moment during the movie when I realised that Dave knew every single one of my 'deep, dark secrets' and still loved me and wanted to be around me. It was a pretty incredible feeling.

There are still many conversations to be had, passions to be discovered and pursued, structures to be put in place to avoid reaching empty again, counselling to be participated in and unrealistic aims to be surrendered. This week I had the realisation that I pin my identity to being the person who shows up no matter what, whether sick, exhausted or frustrated. When others don't hold to that mentality, I (unfairly) take it as an attack on my identity when it is actually just a reflection of the state that they are in at the time. Hopefully, my responses to people not showing up can be more grace-filled and understanding moving forward.

Also, I think I'm realising that meltdowns (from the kids and myself) are pretty much a given in parenting. I'm deluding myself if I think I can control the parameters to such an extent that true, raw emotion never bursts through. It was also reassuring last night, chatting to Alex and Monica about parenting and realising our stories really are so similar with the particular struggles and challenges we face. It also helped that the kids played for hours without (major) incident- creating worlds in the Combi, mud pits in the outdoor kitchen and funny games in the bath - just like old times. I'm so overjoyed to have our friends back, to have a family so perfectly matched in terms of structure, ideals and values about life... and to know that our kids will share a magical childhood together... gives me so much hope.