People don’t actually want you to be you. They want you to be the version of yourself that’s convenient.

Lately I have been grappling with a common contradiction in social dynamics: the tension between authenticity and societal expectations. On one hand, people encourage you to be yourself, to be honest and genuine, but on the other hand, there's this unspoken pressure to conform, to filter your thoughts and emotions in ways that make others more comfortable. It's confusing because these messages are inherently contradictory—telling you to "be yourself" but not fully accepting what that actually entails.

I think many people struggle with this, especially those who think deeply and see the world through a unique lens. Society often celebrates authenticity in theory but finds it difficult to handle in practice, especially when it challenges norms or makes people uncomfortable.

You might not be "on the spectrum" in a clinical sense, but the way many people describe their experiences resonates with how some neurodivergent people feel—their way of seeing or expressing things doesn't always fit neatly into what's expected or socially convenient. It's like living in a constant state of irony: you're told that being real is valuable, but then you're subtly (or not so subtly) pushed to edit that reality to fit in.

The notion that people don’t actually want you to be the full, unfiltered version of yourself but rather the convenient version is an ancient, deeply rooted concept that stretches back to early human society. The earliest written evidence of this idea—though it wasn't framed in modern psychological terms—can be traced back to classical philosophy and early social structures where conformity and group harmony were paramount. We can turn to thinkers like Confucius, who emphasized the importance of maintaining social order and harmony, subtly suggesting that one’s personal expression be moderated for the good of the collective.

In his Analects, Confucius promotes the idea of li (ritual propriety) and ren (benevolence), urging individuals to act in ways that maintain social order, even if it meant not being wholly "authentic" to one's personal desires. I don’t always agree.

Anyways Hisss philosophy reflects an early understanding that true authenticity, if unmoderated, could disrupt societal harmony. This culture is not just a Chinese philosophical construct; similar ideas emerged in ancient Greece with Socrates and Plato, who explored the tension between individual desires and the needs of the polis (city-state). Plato's famous Allegory of the Cave in The Republic implies that confronting uncomfortable truths (or one’s true self) can be jarring to both the individual and society.

But where does this deep-seated expectation to conform come from? Evolutionary psychology offers fascinating insight. Early humans were part of tightly knit tribal communities, where social cohesion was crucial for survival. Being "too real" or too disruptive could mean expulsion from the group, which, in the harsh conditions of prehistoric life, often equated to death. The early social contract likely included an implicit agreement to keep potentially controversial or disruptive behaviors in check for the sake of group survival.

We’ve evolved to recognize social cues, adjust behavior, and moderate self-expression. This adaptation was key for maintaining tribal harmony, where cooperation was more valuable than individual expression. This behavioral moderation can be linked to Dunbar’s Number, the idea that humans have a cognitive limit to the number of stable relationships they can maintain, around 150 people. Within these small communities, maintaining the peace through social compliance was paramount. Being too individualistic or disruptive would have jeopardized the cohesion necessary for survival.

Moving forward through history, religious texts like the Bible and Qur'an contain numerous examples where individuals are encouraged to align their actions with collective values and expectations. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus preaches self-control and humility, not necessarily because being wholly authentic is wrong, but because unchecked authenticity can conflict with moral and communal expectations. In a way, these texts present a codified version of the evolutionary principle: social harmony trumps individual expression.

From an evolutionary standpoint, this makes perfect sense. Early humans who learned to control their behaviors in ways that aligned with their tribe’s values were more likely to survive and pass on their genes. In this sense, our brains evolved to perform what modern psychologists refer to as impression management—an instinctual way to "read the room" and adjust our behavior accordingly.

One of the lesser-known but critical nuances of this is how mirror neurons function in our brain. These neurons fire not only when we perform an action but also when we observe others performing the same action. They allow us to understand and empathize with others' emotions and reactions. Mirror neurons are thought to have evolved to promote social cohesion, enabling us to "mirror" the behaviors that help us fit in with our group. Essentially, they encourage us to be a more convenient version of ourselves, tuned into the emotional and behavioral expectations of those around us. Our brains are literally wired for social adaptation.

This also dovetails with the evolutionary basis for status signaling, a concept explored by Thorstein Veblen in his theory of conspicuous consumption. Humans have always sought to signal their social standing in ways that align with group values—whether through the display of material wealth, virtue, or knowledge. But this signaling is rarely a pure reflection of one's true self. It is a strategically curated version of ourselves designed to gain favor within the social hierarchy.

The philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, in his work Being and Nothingness, offers another angle, albeit more modern. Sartre's concept of "bad faith" describes the human tendency to deceive ourselves into thinking we are being authentic when, in reality, we are conforming to social pressures. His analysis of self-deception is an early philosophical foray into what psychologists today call social compliance. Sartre was keenly aware of how society imposes roles upon us, and how we internalize those roles to the point where we confuse them with our true selves.

Erving Goffman, a 20th-century sociologist, expanded on these ideas in his work The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. Goffman argued that all human interaction is, in a sense, performance. We are constantly managing the impressions others have of us, playing roles depending on the social context. His dramaturgical analysis highlights that "being yourself" is a complex balancing act of internal desires and external social expectations.

But here’s a lesser-discussed psychological nuance: cognitive dissonance. This occurs when an individual’s actions conflict with their beliefs or self-image, creating discomfort. For example, if someone values authenticity but constantly finds themselves altering their behavior to fit in, they will experience cognitive dissonance. To resolve this discomfort, they either adjust their self-concept (“Maybe I’m just someone who adapts”) or justify their actions (“It’s necessary for social harmony”). This internal tension is a testament to how deeply ingrained the evolutionary need for social cohesion is, even when it conflicts with our desire to be authentic.

Another interesting angle comes from terror management theory (TMT), which suggests that much of human behavior is driven by the fear of mortality. According to TMT, people cling to cultural beliefs and social norms to provide structure and meaning in the face of life's inherent chaos. Authenticity, if it veers too far from accepted norms, threatens this sense of order, which is why society tends to push back against unfiltered expression. We crave the comfort of conformity because it helps us manage the existential anxiety of our fragile existence.

So, this expectation that we all tone down our authenticity, to be the convenient, socially digestible version of ourselves, is as old as humanity itself. It’s not just an issue of modern politeness or etiquette—it’s woven into the very fabric of how we evolved to interact with one another. Society has always needed us to play a role, and even though we’ve evolved in many ways, this one primal survival instinct—to fit in with the tribe—still runs deep in our psychology.

The world is funny sometimes. Not in the "ha-ha" way, more in the "cosmic joke" kind of way. It’s as if life is some kind of giant sitcom, where the character who hasn't figured out the laugh track is always on. But instead of falling in line with the script, that guy's looking off-stage, whispering, "Wait… what? This is what we’re doing?"

Let me explain: maybe you spent years—years—trying to master the art of social gymnastics (and still suck ha). You know, that thing where people smile and say, "Just be yourself!" but what they really mean is, "Be yourself, but not too much of yourself. Actually, less of yourself. Maybe dial that down a bit. Perfect!" It’s like they want the diet version of my personality. All the flavor, none of the bite.

And here's where the confusion sets in. I think, “Sure, I’ll be real, I’ll be honest!” And then I do just that. I say what I think, how I feel. Not in a mean way, mind you. More like, "Hey, I noticed this thing. It’s kind of strange, right?" And then I see it—that look. You know the one. It’s the look people give when they’ve just bitten into what they thought was a chocolate chip cookie, but it turns out to be raisin. A mix of betrayal and mild horror.

It’s baffling. People tell me to be honest. They encourage it, like I’m at some kind of motivational seminar: “You’ve got this! Just be yourself! People will love you!” But then when I do, it’s as if I’ve said the secret word that unlocks the exit door to the nearest polite conversation.

And honestly, it’s hilarious. In a dark, absurd way. I mean, it’s like being told, “The water’s fine! Jump in!” only to realize it’s a pool full of piranhas who just want you to stop splashing around. But here’s the kicker—after a while, you start to wonder if they even know what they want. Do they want honesty? Or do they want comfort, neatly packaged in honesty’s wrapping paper?

But the irony? The delicious irony is, I’ve been trying to crack this code for so long, and maybe there’s no code to crack. Maybe the universe just likes to watch us dance between the lines, occasionally tripping over our own feet, trying to figure out when it’s okay to be real and when we need to add a bit of sugar.

And then I laugh. Because, honestly, the whole thing is kind of ridiculous. We’re all walking around pretending we’ve got the playbook when really, we’re all just making it up as we go along. The honesty thing? It’s just one more game.

The funny thing is, I realize how deeply human this is. This urge to connect, to be real, but also to protect ourselves from being too real. It’s like trying to find the sweet spot between making someone laugh and cry, sometimes in the same breath. Like life’s some kind of stand-up routine where you can throw in a punchline right after a profound, tear-jerking moment.

So that is why it is indeed something to talk about. A little chat about this whole “just be yourself” mantra that everyone loves to throw around like it’s some kind of universal truth. I mean, you hear it from everyone. Friends, family, that random guy who gave you life advice at the gas station for no reason.

“Just be yourself! People will love you for who you are!”

Really? Is that what people want? Because, based on my experience, no. No, they absolutely do not.

Here’s the paradox: everyone insists on authenticity, like it’s this golden key to social harmony, but what they really want is for you to be the version of yourself that’s palatable.

They don’t mean, “Be yourself.” They mean, “Be the version of yourself that doesn’t make things awkward.” It’s like telling someone to "be spontaneous" but scheduling the spontaneity for 2 p.m. on a Tuesday.

Let’s be real: honesty, in its raw form, is not something most people are equipped to handle. It’s like strong coffee—some like it, but most need a little cream and sugar just to get it down. You ever notice how people say, “I love honesty,” and then you give them honesty and suddenly you’re the guy they avoid at social gatherings? It’s like, “Hey, man, you told me you wanted the truth. I’m just giving you what you asked for.” But somehow, it’s my fault for taking the request seriously.

What they actually want is honesty in a neatly wrapped package, with a bow on top. Honest, but not too honest. Direct, but with a hint of diplomacy. It’s a balancing act, really—keeping things real, but not so real that it makes them uncomfortable. It’s like they want you to give them 100% of yourself, but with a 50% discount on anything that might cause a wrinkle in their worldview.

And isn’t that the whole absurdity of it? The very people who preach authenticity are often the ones least capable of dealing with it. You say something real, something unvarnished, and they react like you’ve suddenly stopped following the script. And you’re left thinking, “Wait… weren’t you the one who told me to be myself?”

It’s a constant game of social theater, isn’t it? Everyone playing their parts, reciting their lines. And the second you break character, the room goes silent, like you just flipped the table at a polite dinner party. But the thing is, I didn’t even *mean* to flip the table. I just thought we were all being honest here, you know?

And then there’s that phrase—"just be yourself"—as if it’s that simple. As if everyone’s walking around with some fully formed, neatly packaged version of themselves that fits perfectly in every scenario. The reality? We’re all just winging it, pretending we know what we’re doing, adjusting based on the feedback we get. Being yourself is less about finding some singular truth and more about testing out different versions of you and seeing which one doesn’t make people uncomfortable.

So, here’s my theory: People don’t actually want you to be you. They want you to be the version of yourself that’s convenient. As i said. It’s a delicate dance, really. Say enough to seem authentic, but not so much that you disturb the illusion of harmony. Because at the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about—keeping the peace, avoiding those awkward silences where everyone realizes, “Oh, right, we’re all just faking it a little, aren’t we?”

Let’s get real for a second—social harmony? It’s a myth. We like to think we’re all on the same page, working together toward some communal, utopian vibe where everyone is in sync. But let’s be honest: society is more like a cacophony of conflicting interests, where everyone is pretending they’re part of a grand orchestra, but no one’s sheet music matches.

The closest we ever get to this mythical "social harmony"? Halloween. And maybe Christmas.

Now, stay with me here. Halloween is that one night of the year when everyone gets on board with the absurd. It’s a brilliant social agreement where the rules flip, and we all embrace a bit of chaos. You can show up to work dressed as a taco, and no one bats an eye. Suddenly, social expectations are suspended—kids demand candy from strangers, adults walk the streets as pirates and witches, and we’re all *fine* with it. There’s something almost primal about it, too. Halloween taps into our deep evolutionary need to role-play and escape. For one night, we collectively agree to be weird, which might be the closest thing we ever get to real unity. But let’s be clear—this isn't harmony in the peaceful sense. It’s harmony in the "let’s all be weird together" sense. It’s organized chaos.

Then there’s Christmas. Ah, Christmas—the season of togetherness, warmth, and peace, right? Well, sort of. Christmas feels like harmony, but only because everyone is bound by the same rituals: giving gifts, decorating trees, listening to the same dozen holiday songs on repeat until your brain goes numb. It’s like the whole world decides to put on the same ugly sweater and smile for the camera. But this harmony? It’s forced. It’s the social equivalent of agreeing to wear matching outfits for a family photo—everyone knows it’s a bit ridiculous, but we do it anyway because it’s tradition.

Here’s the thing: true social harmony, the kind where everyone aligns in perfect synchronicity, simply doesn’t exist. People are too complex, too contradictory, too full of their own desires and fears. The best we get is fleeting moments of collective agreement—rituals like Halloween and Christmas where, for a brief time, we all pretend to be on the same wavelength. But even these moments are more about conformity than true harmony.

Evolutionarily, humans never really evolved to live in perfect social harmony. We evolved to live in groups for survival, sure—but groups full of tension, negotiation, and constant realignment of power and interests. Think about early human tribes: they weren’t singing “Kumbaya” around the fire every night. They were navigating conflicts, figuring out how to share resources, and constantly watching their backs to make sure no one was eyeing their piece of meat too closely. Our social “harmony” was always more about managing conflict than avoiding it.

Let’s not forget the psychology behind it all. Our brains are wired to prioritize in-group cohesion, but that doesn’t mean peace and love for all. It means sticking with your tribe and occasionally throwing shade at the others. Halloween and Christmas are just modern-day versions of tribal bonding rituals. Halloween lets us step outside our everyday roles, and Christmas pulls us back into them, reinforcing the values of the tribe—family, giving, togetherness, blah blah blah.

But even in these moments of “harmony,” there’s an underlying tension. Halloween, despite its fun, is tinged with elements of fear and mischief—the trick-or-treat balance. Christmas is notorious for its stress, family conflicts, and the pressure to perform holiday cheer. Beneath the lights and carols, we’re all navigating the unspoken social rules about who gives what gift, how much you’re supposed to spend, and which relative gets the nice card versus the obligatory text message.

So, where’s the harmony in that? There isn’t any. What we have are pockets of alignment, brief respites where we pretend we’re all in this together, before slipping back into the dissonance of everyday life.

In evolutionary terms, our species is more built for adaptability than unity. We’re designed to navigate shifting alliances, changing conditions, and multiple overlapping social circles, each with its own set of rules. Social harmony, as we imagine it, is too static a concept for the way humans actually operate. The closest we ever get to it are these ritualized moments of collective behavior—Halloween’s playful chaos and Christmas’s prescribed cheer. They’re like the social equivalent of a ceasefire in a never-ending negotiation.

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the idea of lasting social harmony is too idealistic, too utopian for creatures as complex and contradictory as we are. What we can achieve are these temporary, shared experiences—moments when we agree, whether consciously or not, to set aside our differences and follow the same script. It’s not harmony in the grand sense, but it’s the best we’ve got.

So, here’s to Halloween and Christmas, the fleeting moments when we all get to pretend, for just a little while, that we’re living in harmony. And when those moments pass, we can return to the beautiful, chaotic mess of being human, where true harmony is more a fantasy than a reality.

But hey, next time someone tells you to "just be yourself," maybe ask them for a little clarification. Which version of me would you like today? The smooth, agreeable one, or the honest one who might remind you that the whole concept of being yourself is just a bit of a social farce?

Because let’s be real—being yourself isn’t the problem. It’s the world’s ability to handle it that’s the real issue.

So here I am, late at night, thinking about how dark some of my thoughts have been. And how maybe the best thing I can do is just laugh about it. Not in a “everything’s fine” kind of way, but in that way where you realize that sometimes, life’s so weird and twisted, the only thing left to do is laugh. Because, in the end, it’s all part of the same dance.

Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. You cry. You laugh. You cry a little more. Then, when you least expect it, you laugh again. Regardless the frustration you're feeling is understandable. It's a kind of social paradox, and many who are deep thinkers or outliers in some way often wrestle with it. The key is to strike a balance that feels authentic to you but also recognizes the realities of navigating social expectations. Maybe the goal isn't to choose between being yourself or holding back but learning when it's worth pushing the boundaries and when it's more strategic to adjust for the situation.