Am I Living Authentically, Or Following A path Set By Others? Jim Corbridge's Deep Thoughts. For 7th November.

Authenticity. That’s the word they slap on shampoo bottles and TED Talks now. “Live your truth,” they say, while selling you a £19.99 planner to schedule your spiritual awakening between Pilates and your third existential crisis of the week. You want know if you’re living authentically? Here’s a clue: if you had to ask, probably not.

Living authentically used to mean something. It meant telling your boss to shove it, growing a beard that scared children, and moving to a cabin where your only neighbours were squirrels and regret. Now it means posting a filtered photo of your avocado toast with the caption “Just being me!” Yeah, you and 40 million other people named Madison!

We’re all on a path, sure. But who laid the bricks? You think you chose your job, your clothes, your opinions? Nah. You were handed a starter pack at birth: “Here’s your gender, your religion, your favorite football team, and a vague sense of guilt about everything. Good luck!” And off you went, thinking you were steering the ship, when really you’re just rearranging deck chairs on someone else’s Titanic.

They tell you to follow your dreams, but only if those dreams come with a pension plan and Private  health care. Try telling your parents you wanted be a poet. Watch their faces melt like cheese on a radiator. “A poet? That’s nice, dear. But have you considered accounting? It’s like poetry, but with spreadsheets and slow death.”

And don’t get me started on school. That’s where they really hammer it in. Sit still, memorise facts, regurgitate them on command like a trained parrot with a student loan. They don’t teach you how to think, they teach you how to comply. Authenticity doesn’t fit in a Scantron bubble.

You want to be authentic? Start by questioning everything. Why do you wear that tie? Why do you vote for that party? Why do you believe in that god, that guru, that gluten-free lifestyle? If the answer is “Because that’s what everyone else does,” congratulations, you’re a clone with a Netflix subscription.

But here’s the thing: even rebellion gets commodified. You grow your hair long, they sell you shampoo for rebels. You scream into the void, they turn it into a podcast. You try to live off the grid, and suddenly there’s a reality show called “Authenticity Island” hosted by a guy named Bret who’s never eaten a vegetable that wasn’t pre-cut.

So what do you do? You strip it down. You get quiet. You ask yourself, “What do I actually like? What makes me feel alive?” And if the answer is “I don’t know,” then good. That’s the start. That’s the crack in the façade. That’s where the real you might crawl out, blinking, confused, and probably naked.

Because authenticity isn’t a brand. It’s not a lifestyle. It’s not a hashtag. It’s a messy, inconvenient, glorious middle finger to everything that tells you who you’re supposed to be. And if you’re lucky, you’ll live just long enough to say, “Screw it. I’m me. Deal with it.”