Our End State: Liberated Authenticity

Our End State: Liberated Authenticity

BY T. T. COWAN

As I sat in the auditorium, darkness shrouded the parents eagerly waiting to see their child take the stage for the Spring Strings Concert. But instead of looking at the stage, I was focused on what was happening four rows in front of me.

My son, smack dab in the middle of all the kids, was fidgeting and playfully distracting the kids around him. The others sat quietly; they knew not to move, not to speak too much or too loudly, and most importantly, to behave. Beside them, my son’s movement stood out like a lighthouse in the dark room.

I felt tension strangling me, redness rising up to my face, the pulse of blood in my ears.

As my son continued his attempts to engage those around them, I watched the other kids try to shush him. I saw as they pushed him away, turned their backs, switched seats–tried to signal for him to stop acting up and behave.  

My cortisol continued to climb. 

I looked to his teachers and anticipated the unapproving looks I had seen many times, the call-out of my son being “naughty” for his inability to control himself. I turned my gaze to the parents, who could all see the disruption before them. I felt all of the eyes of our community on my son. I wanted to yell across the room for him to stop.

I like to think of myself as someone who doesn’t seek the approval of others. As a parent, my goal is to instill confidence in my children, not to listen to others’ opinions. So why in this moment, and so many like it before, did I find myself wanting my son to behave?

Why did I want him to hide who he truly was? 

Was I asking him to mask?

At age six, my son was diagnosed with ADHD and traits associated with Autism. This diagnosis gave me hope, but did little to foster acceptance in those around him. While family may forgive a little more easily and teachers may have more patience, their interactions with him were all focused on assimilation. Did he take his meds? Are his meds working? Does he need to run a couple of laps? While he attended a great school that had the best of intentions, challenges persisted on a daily basis. Multiple times a day, everything and everyone around him told my son that he was wrong, he wasn’t doing it the right way, that he needed to change himself in order to fit in.

A few years after my son’s diagnosis, I too was diagnosed with ADHD and the same autistic traits.  My diagnosis ignited a fire in me to make sense of my own past, and to understand the truth and purpose of how I was designed. 

I began searching for answers, first as a parent trying to support their child, and then, as a member of a long-line of neurodivergent people who were born not to merely survive, but to exist with purpose. 

I researched and learned terms like masking, sound sensitivity, stim seeking, tactile sensitivity, authenticity, innovation, novelty seeking, origination, and creativity. I started to recognize how we move through spaces not built for us. I began to realize how much we mold ourselves around others’ discomfort in order to avoid rejection. I worked on developing the empathy required for ultimate acceptance of who we are and how we were built. 

I had become aware and my belief system had changed–so why was I still stressing over the activity in row 4? Why did it bother me that the eyes of our community were on my son, who was just being himself, as he was designed? 

It was at this moment, in the darkness of a Strings Concert, that I decided it was going to stop. I was going to stop. I wasn’t going to pressure him to conform, and I wasn’t going to feel shame over his authentic exuberance. 

I stood up and moved to the back row of the theater. I sat in a place where I couldn’t see my son. This tension was my problem, not his. Over the years, I had been the one who had made it worse. 

As I sat in isolation, free from the eyes of others, I listened to the children playing Tchaicovsky and reflected on all of those special moments I had approached with dread instead of joy, fearing the glances, the whispers, the requests for parent-teacher meetings to “discuss” my son's behavior. 

My son was so vibrant and exuberant, he couldn’t contain his joy. He loved things so hard, it made people uncomfortable. 

But maybe this discomfort was their problem.

I knew the world would see people like my son and me but not understand us–and that rejection was my biggest fear. I knew what was ahead for my son and everyone like him, since I had experienced it too: the looks, the smirks, the whispers. Established norms and etiquettes do not allow others to embrace what is different. Compliance is rewarded at the expense of inspiration and enthusiasm–all because it’s not the right place or time for such expression.

These norms suffocate joy, as moments of humor, innovation and original thought are smothered for the sake of decorum.  

I thought about the damage the mask had done to me. It had prevented me from connecting with my own desires well into my 40’s, when I was diagnosed. I’d lost so much of my life to self-preservation: my dreams, my confidence and the belief that I had purpose. How different might my life have looked, had I not sacrificed my authentic self for the comfort of others? If I’d rejected the sneers of others and pursued my own interests?  What if instead of shame, I’d found power in the cringe evoked by saying the wrong thing and acting the wrong way? What if I hadn’t made myself smaller?

What life might I have lived if I hadn’t hidden myself?

In the back of that dark auditorium, I clearly saw all my tension, heart strain, and stress–the desperation of wanting my son to conform to the norms, to hide: “Don’t let them see you,” “Be accepted and not rejected,” “Hide your exuberance before they take it away.” I’d wanted to spare my son all of the pain I had suffered. 

I’d wanted him to MASK! 

But was that really what I wanted for my son? For any of us? To hide who we are? To wear the mask, in hopes it can protect us from the cruelty of rejection? To spare ourselves one type of pain, only to replace it with another? The answer was and is a definitive NO!

That may have been my experience, but I am determined it will not be my son’s–or yours. 

For all of us who have had to mask, what I want is liberated authenticity. 

To fearlessly move through the world based on our own norms and joy, rather than the sneers and whispers of others. 

To not be beholden to those who may be confused by our inability to conform; who do not understand when they see our outbursts of happiness; who may judge the disruptions that burst forth from our pure expressions of joy. 

Instead of striving to assimilate, I want us to dare to be ourselves, with humor, playfulness, joy, sincerity, vulnerability and courage. 

Instead of hiding our differences, I want to make space and allow for us to be in a state of liberated authenticity.  

It’s what I want for my son, for me and for all of you.  

It’s what Motley Bloom hopes to do together.

When my son finally took to the stage, I didn’t focus on how he plucked the strings while everyone else strummed in sync. Instead, I was struck by the pure delight with which he played. It radiated out of him, all the way to the back of the auditorium where I stood. So what if he wasn’t playing like everyone else? He was playing like himself, and in that moment, I was finally able to share in his joy.

I’d spent too long avoiding rejecting, chasing assimilation, seeking compliance–hiding his light and mine. How many of us can say the same?

I do not choose this. We do not choose this. 

Now the healing process begins. For him. For me. For all of us. 

It is time to drop the mask and embrace the cringe so we can find the courage to take on the exuberant, colorful, interesting lives we deserve. We were designed to be vibrant, to see the world in color, and to live in wanderlust.  We will do it differently, but together. At our own pace, with no expectations. 

See you on the other side. 

My son and I will be there, together.

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