“I have entered upon a performance which is without example, whose accomplishment will have no imitator. I mean to present my fellow-mortals with a man in all the integrity of nature; and this man shall be myself.”
– Rousseau, Confessions
Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778) didn’t just preach sincerity—he tried to live it, even when it meant showing himself in an unflattering light. In Confessions, he infamously admitted to placing his five children in the care of the state orphanage, where they likely died. It’s tragic, wrong, and disturbing. But what’s striking is how he tells us this without self-justification or spin. He claims he’s not writing to impress, only to be honest. He doesn’t seek admiration—just the cold comfort of knowing he told the truth, even if it makes him look awful.
Unlike modern autobiography—or the YouTube vlog where someone cries, then plugs their merch—Rousseau isn’t performing virtue. He’s trying, for once, not to perform at all. It’s all about being real.
“Be yourself” is the thing now. Instagrammers, TikTokers, pop psychology magazines, self-help guides, even your cereal box tell you to do it. It’s everywhere. The desire not just to seem natural, but to be, is ever-present. But behind our modern obsession with authenticity is our 18th-century philosopher, already wrestling with this idea long before the puppy-face filter existed.
Rousseau might’ve viewed LinkedIn bios the same way he viewed powdered hairpieces: fake, stiff, and yawningly dull. He believed that true freedom wasn’t just doing whatever you wanted—it was living in alignment with your natural self, the one crushed under social norms, labels, but especially our endless thirst for validation.
For Rousseau, sincerity was only possible in private life, because social relations were full of norms, expectations, and virtue-signaling. Modern society has turned humans into evolved monkeys climbing a social ladder made of appearances. Some hide behind filters and curated feeds; others flash academic titles or job promotions. The platforms vary, but the goal is the same: to be seen, admired, validated.
And to Rousseau, there was something deeply fake—and deeply damaging—about this. That’s why he sparked what we might call the “authenticity cult,” a countercultural rebellion against society’s performance-based living.
Let’s be honest, though—society needs those public morals to function. “Thank you,” he said, even though he wanted to scream. “Lovely weather today,” she muttered, in the middle of an existential crisis. “Let’s have lunch sometime!” (They both hoped it would never happen.)
These polite lies make peaceful, prosperous lives possible. So, there’s a case to be made for maintaining appearances. Rousseau might push it too far by claiming sincerity should be society’s highest value. That road could easily lead to a world where cruelty is excused as honesty. We have to tread carefully here. After all, we don’t want serial killers or unfiltered narcissists running wild in the name of “just being themselves.”
Still, Rousseau raises an uncomfortable truth: our obsession with “being yourself” online is rarely about actually being yourself. What we want is to appear natural—but in a way that still gets likes, followers, and brand deals. We’re not removing our masks; we’re just putting on a new one labeled “authentic.” It’s the same old performance—just with better lighting and a self-care hashtag.
It’s like showing up to a costume party dressed as “someone not wearing a costume”—only it took you three hours to put that outfit together.
So, is real authenticity—and with it, real freedom—now only possible off the grid?
According to Rousseau, yes. That’s why in Émile, his book on education, the child is to be raised without social comparisons. Rousseau’s idea was radical: educate a child by shielding him from social influence so that his natural self could develop without vanity.
The only book Rousseau allows Émile to read is Robinson Crusoe—not by accident. Crusoe’s story represents the ideal of self-sufficiency: a man who learns to survive using reason and direct experience, not second-hand opinions. Crusoe is alone, but free. No social games, no prestige contests, no likes. That’s the kind of human Rousseau wanted to cultivate: someone who forms his identity from within, not from external validation.
Later, of course, Émile must return to society and learn to dance to its rhythm. Civilization has its perks—Rousseau wasn’t telling us all to become noble savages. But he did believe that people should recognize the social hypocrisy around them, even if they had to play along.
After all, you should have table manners. Being authentic doesn’t mean being abrasive. Manners still matter—even Rousseau, radical as he was, wouldn’t want you spitting on the table in the name of sincerity.
As the Russian writer Anton Chekhov is often credited with saying—though I’ve never found the exact quotation in his works—“Good manners are not about never spilling the sauce, but about pretending not to notice when someone else does.” A little social performance can be a kindness—not a lie, but a form of grace. In fact, it’s this kind of empathy—this ability to see the person behind the role—that lets us rise above the rules when the rules lose their purpose.
True civility isn’t rigid obedience, but knowing when to bend in favor of compassion. That, too, is part of being fully human. And while we may champion freedom in liberal democracies—freedom from coercion or permission, as thinkers like Friedrich Hayek or Deirdre McCloskey might frame it—Rousseau reminds us that there’s also a more subtle kind: the freedom to think differently, to be ourselves, even when it’s unpopular.
After all, what if, in the name of freedom and authenticity, we’re just building new chains? One thing is freeing yourself from others’ judgments; another is swapping one mold for another—this time with a shiny “authenticity” label from Silicon Valley.
Maybe Plato said it best: “Not that human affairs are worth taking very seriously—but take them seriously is just what we are forced to do, alas.”
Because in the end, maybe Rousseau saw something we still wrestle with: that we’re all caught somewhere between performance and sincerity, between rules and rebellion, trying to figure out how to be free and decent at the same time.
