Over the last week I have been spending time with people who were part of my growing up years. Schoolmates. College mates. Church friends. Choir companions. People who once shared classrooms, benches, hymn books, secrets, and occasionally punishment.
I did something unusual.
I kept quiet.
I listened.
I watched.
And I discovered something rather disturbing and rather beautiful at the same time.
The people I enjoyed being with the most were not the most successful ones. Not the richest. Not the most articulate. Not the ones with dramatic stories of achievement.
They were the ones who were simply themselves.
They spoke about their struggles without embarrassment. They admitted mistakes without footnotes. They laughed at their own foolishness. They did not try to look impressive. They did not pretend life had turned out exactly as planned.
Some had known tragedy. Some had tasted success. Most had experienced both. But all of them were real flesh and blood human beings.
Then there were others.
With them, conversation felt like watching a performance. Every sentence was polished. Well rehearsed. Every story had a heroic ending. Every failure was quickly converted into a lesson that made them look noble.
Very exhausting.
Somewhere along the way they seem to have worked out, that being ordinary is not good enough. That vulnerability is dangerous. That admitting fear or confusion is a sign of weakness.
Nonsense.
Vulnerability is courage in its purest form.
When someone says, “I struggled,” something magical happens. The room relaxes. Shoulders drop. Others feel safe to say, “Me too.”
Pretence builds walls.
Honesty builds bridges.
Many of us live as if life is a stage. We perform. We put up an act for an invisible audience. We adjust our lines. We edit our emotions. We present the highlights and hide the lows.
But here is an uncomfortable truth.
Audiences eventually get bored.
Not because the acting is bad.
But because acting is empty.
People do not remember perfect performances.
They remember real people.
They remember kindness.
They remember the person who said, “I do not have it all together.”
The irony is delicious and please listen to this truth: We perform in order to be loved. Yet we are most lovable when we stop performing.
We hide our flaws thinking they disqualify us. In reality, they make us relatable.
So if I may offer a small piece of unsolicited advice.
Stop acting. This is not a stage.
Be your real self.
You will lose a few admirers.
You will gain something far more precious.
Genuine connection. Genuine friends. And a genuine life.
And in a world full of performers, being real is quietly revolutionary…!