Last month, Sarah and I went to a fundraising dinner for Whatcom Dream, a local organization doing meaningful work around financial literacy in our community. Good cause. Good people. And exactly the kind of large, structured social event I tend to brace myself for.
I'm not antisocial. I have close friendships, love small gatherings, and come alive when a conversation goes somewhere real. But cocktail-hour small talk at a table of strangers? That's a different animal.
So when the man across the table asked what I do when I'm not working, I felt the familiar pause. The split-second calculation most of us have learned to run automatically.
Do I give the safe answer — or the honest one?
The Edited Version Has a Cost
Most of us carry a socially approved version of ourselves ready to deploy. The résumé answer. The palatable hobby. The thing we think will land without friction.
It's not dishonest exactly. It's edited. And it's something I've gotten more impatient with as I've gotten older.
What actually shapes this tendency goes deeper than politeness. Researchers call these kinds of invisible social scriptsconserves— the patterns, expectations, and unspoken rules we absorb from family, culture, and community without ever consciously choosing them. They run like background software, telling us what's safe to show and what to keep tucked away. Most of the time, we don't even notice they're running.
The conserve at work in social settings goes something like this:match the norm, don't make it weird, keep things comfortable. And for a lot of people, interests that sit outside the mainstream — consciousness exploration, group process work, esoteric practices — qualify as "weird."
The problem is that edited versions of ourselves create edited conversations. And edited conversations leave everyone at the table a little lonelier than when they sat down.
What I Actually Said
I told him the truth. That I don't trail run much anymore. That I might mountain bike occasionally. That I spend time with close friends, practice yoga, engage in some more esoteric inner work, and participate in groups that explore the edges of consciousness and how we actually function as human beings.
Then I added, almost as an aside: "I'm kind of a nerd for consciousness work."
He paused. And then something shifted. He leaned in.
Sadly we were interrupted by the start of the event. But I recognize that lean in, it's often the beginning of an interesting conversation, not necessarily an easy start as we explore the edges of "polite" conversation, but a meaningful one.
The moment I name my "weird," it's an invitation to the other person to share theirs. Often the man across the table has their own unconventional interests — the kind they rarely mention in polite company.
This is what authenticity actually does. It doesn't just reveal you. Itlicensesthe other person to show up, too.
Why Differences Draw Us In
There's a counterintuitive truth embedded in how humans connect: our differences are often more compelling than our similarities. We tend to think that finding common ground is the key to connection — and it matters, especially early. But genuine difference, met with curiosity rather than judgment, generates a different kind of energy. It opens questions. It makes the other person think:I've never looked at it that way.
This shows up in our intimate partnerships too. People who pair well over time are rarely mirror images of each other. They bring different strengths, different orientations, different ways of moving through the world. The differences are part of what keeps things alive. They're also part of what makes the relationship a vehicle for growth — for each person's own expansion of self.
From a neuroscience standpoint, there's something real happening here. When we encounter something genuinely novel — a person who doesn't fit our existing categories — the brain's reward circuitry activates. We're wired to pay attention to what's different. Authenticity, real authenticity, gives people something to actually engage with.
The bland version of you doesn't do that.
The Interesting Life Is Weird By Definition
I've spent a fair portion of my life quietly self-conscious about my interests. The group process work, the consciousness exploration, the practices that don't fit neatly into any conventional category. In most rooms, that stuff doesn't come up.
But here's what I keep noticing: the people who live the most textured, generative lives are almost always a little weird by conventional standards. Not weird as performance. Weird as in — they followed genuine curiosity somewhere most people didn't bother to go.
And they tend to be the most interesting people in the room.
Part of what I've come to understand is that this is an ongoing process ofdifferentiation— the work of becoming more fully yourself, less shaped by what you absorbed from your family or culture or social environment, and more grounded in what's actually true for you. That process brings us to leadership in our lives, and it never really finishes. I'm still doing it at 67. The dinner table last night was, in its small way, an opportunity to practice it.
The Dance
I want to be honest about what this isn't. It's not an argument for radical oversharing, or for turning every dinner into a therapy session. You've probably experienced where someone dominates a conversation with their "stuff". Context matters. Reading whether someone is genuinely curious or just being polite — that's a real skill, and it takes attention.
What I'm pointing at is something subtler: the willingness to give an honest answer when someone asks an honest question. To notice when the conserve kicks in and nudge yourself past it. To resist the gravitational pull toward the safe, the predictable, the socially pre-approved.
Because when you do — when you say the true thing — you often discover you're not nearly as alone in your weirdness as you thought.
And that's when the conversation gets interesting.
Something Worth Sitting With
What's the version of yourself you tend to leave at home?
The genuine interests, the unusual curiosities, the parts of you that feel a little outside the mainstream.
What would happen if you offered one of those, just once, the next time someone asks?
