I was standing in my Koramangala kitchen at 9:47 PM, phone in hand, when something shifted in the most ordinary way possible. My neighbor had texted asking if I wanted to join her and some friends for dinner at that new place on Brigade Road.
My fingers had already typed out “Sounds great! Looking forward to it!” because that’s apparently what I do—automatic yes before my brain can catch up.
But as my thumb hovered over send, I heard this quiet voice in my head:
“You don’t actually want to do this.”
Not dramatic or mystical. Just matter-of-fact, like someone pointing out that it’s raining outside. And for some reason, instead of pushing that thought away like I usually do, I actually listened to it.
I could already picture the evening—two hours of traffic to get there, another two making small talk about people I barely know, then the long ride home feeling drained and wondering why I keep saying yes to things that feel like work. The familiar weight of social obligation settling in my chest like I’d just remembered something unpleasant I’d forgotten to do.
That’s when it hit me: I’d been having this same internal conversation for years. Maybe decades. Every time I agreed to plans that made me feel tired before they even happened, that voice would pipe up with some version of
“this doesn’t feel right”
and I’d dismiss it as antisocial tendencies or introversion taken too far.
What if that voice wasn’t the problem?
What if it was trying to help?
I deleted my enthusiastic response and typed something simpler:
“Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m going to pass this time.
Hope you all have a lovely evening!”
The relief was immediate and physical—like setting down something heavy I hadn’t realized I was carrying. My neighbor texted back almost immediately:
“No problem at all! Maybe next time 😊”
And that was it. No drama, no hurt feelings, no elaborate explanations needed. Just a simple no, accepted without question. Made me wonder how many times I’d created stress where none needed to exist.
Standing there in my kitchen, listening to the familiar evening sounds—auto-rickshaws, my upstairs neighbor’s TV, someone’s pressure cooker whistling—I started thinking about all the times I’d felt that same internal resistance.
The networking events where I’d spend the whole time calculating how soon I could leave.
The dinner parties where I’d perform enthusiasm while feeling completely depleted.
The work projects I’d take on despite knowing they weren’t the right fit, then wonder why I felt like a fraud the entire time.
I’d always treated that uncomfortable feeling like something to overcome, like social anxiety or professional insecurity. But what if it was actually my internal compass working exactly as it should, pointing me away from things that drained me and toward what actually felt right?
The more I thought about it, the more obvious it became.
You can’t recognize when something feels performative unless you know what authentic feels like.
That part of me that cringed during conversations where I pretended to care about topics that bored me—that same part lit up during conversations where I could just be myself without editing or performing.
My authentic self wasn’t buried somewhere deep inside.
It had been there all along, taking notes.
What struck me wasn’t some grand revelation about who I am. It was simpler than that. I’d been treating this internal guidance system like background noise when it was actually the most reliable feedback I had.
Every time I felt energized after certain interactions versus drained after others. Every time work felt like flow versus feeling like I was pushing a boulder uphill. Every time I left social situations feeling connected versus feeling like I needed three days alone just to feel like myself again.
I thought about last month when I’d agreed to speak at that design conference, even though I knew I wasn’t ready. The weeks of anxiety beforehand, the imposter syndrome, the exhaustion afterward—not because speaking was inherently bad, but because that particular opportunity wasn’t the right fit for where I actually was in my knowledge and experience.
Then I thought about the times when saying yes felt easy and energizing.
Writing about topics I was genuinely curious about.
Having coffee with someone where the conversation flowed naturally instead of feeling like an interview.
Taking on projects that stretched me in ways that felt like growth rather than performance.
The difference wasn’t in the activity itself. It was in whether it aligned with what that quiet voice was telling me—the one I’d been dismissing as overthinking or social anxiety when it was actually just paying attention to what worked for me and what didn’t.
Authenticity isn’t something you find. It’s something you stop ignoring.
I’m still learning to listen to that voice instead of overriding it with what I think I should want or what would look good to other people. Still catching myself mid-type on enthusiastic responses to invitations that make my stomach clench. But that Tuesday night in my kitchen, something changed. Not dramatically—just a small shift in who I was willing to trust when it came to knowing what felt right for me.
Turns out the authentic self everyone talks about finding isn’t some hidden treasure you excavate through enough therapy or self-reflection. It’s been there all along, quietly pointing out what nourishes you versus what depletes you, what feels genuine versus what feels like you’re playing a role.
The hard part isn’t finding it—
it’s learning to trust what it’s been telling you all along.
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