A recent longing for realness

Lately I find myself longing for things that are real.

People. Conversations. Flaws. Humanity.

I want the people around me to be real.
And I want to be real. As real as I can possibly be.

I didn’t always want this. For a long time, I wanted to be perfect.

I think this longing for realness feels stronger now because it’s never been easier to manufacture something that looks real. To generate the "perfect" words and image. To perform coherence instead of living it.

The more polished the world becomes, the more I crave what hasn’t been optimized.

Last year, I posted a selfie on Instagram while on a walk with one of my best friends. We were full of life force, completely enjoying each other. The photo captured something alive and electric, and I wanted to share it.

Someone commented: “I love that you post things without posing and without worrying what you look like.”

My brain immediately translated that to: "Wow, you looked really bad in that photo." So I took it down.

A similar situation showed up recently in my writing.

What I share on LinkedIn is real. The ideas are mine. The voice is mine. The sometimes awkward phrasing is mine. The thoughts come quickly, almost fully formed. I write them down and refine them.

I’m not averse to AI. If I’m stuck on a sentence, want a final read-through for typos or clarity, or want hashtag suggestions, I have no problem turning to ChatGPT.

Recently, I decided to level up and build a LinkedIn Operator: a custom AI trained to write in my voice. I fed it my latest draft post and asked it to work its magic. It was close, but not quite there. I spent the next 30 minutes tweaking tone, adjusting phrasing, trying to make it feel like me, and getting increasingly frustrated when it wouldn’t. I iterated the output at least ten times.

And when I thought about actually publishing the final product, it felt hollow. I couldn't do it.

Last year I deleted the “imperfect” photo.
This year I deleted the “perfect” post.

Because, in that moment, I realized that imposter syndrome for me isn’t about not being enough, whether in how I look or how I write. It’s about posting something that isn’t actually me.

People sometimes tell me a LinkedIn post I wrote resonated with them or made them feel seen. Those notes mean so much. If they believe the voice is mine, it needs to be.

I say I love writing. That it brings me joy. That I’m here to build that muscle.

Using AI to write for me would be like going to the gym and asking the trainer to lift the weights. I would have checked a box. But I wouldn’t be stronger. I wouldn’t have expanded. And I wouldn’t have learned anything about myself in the process.

I write because I enjoy the process. Because something shifts in me when I articulate what feels true. If I try to shortcut that, I’m the only one who loses.

Maybe that’s what being real actually requires.
Not perfection. Not polish. Just practice.

And the willingness to actually be seen.