There are times when I question my authenticity. I don’t know exactly where in my mind this unrepentant need to impress others takes root, but I’m sure it’s there. In moments like these, I think of my life as just some grand production, a show I put on for any audience willing to pay the fee.

I used to brag about my early activism and how as a teenager I would scale my school building to yell at the student body: Karim Delgado, the lone crusader against injustice. I see it differently now. Why on every occasion had I sought the highest platform to spew my vitriol? Looking back, I remember that I never reached out to the masses or stood among them, instead placing myself at a singular point for their complete attention while I spoke down to them. I wasn’t really alone—I was in the company of my conceit.

What have I accomplished since then? Instead of screaming loudly for attention, I hide clumsily behind my stirred façade of bourbon and isolation, secretly hoping that someone will figure me out insofar that I desire to be figured out. Even then, the discovery I desire isn’t real. That would require too much from me. I want the feeling of coming clean without having to come clean. I want to look vulnerable, complete with those Hollywood tears that roll down like the excess from eye drops.

I’ve sacrificed so much in the wake of this unreality, chances at love and life and all of those simple pleasures that my quest for plastic glory has denied me. Every relationship I’ve ever been in was eventually squandered under the pretense that “the world needs a devoted leader.” But what was I devoted to, really, other than the attention that comes with having your name written in textbooks?

We may not like it or expect it, but as we age, our flaws mature alongside us. We don’t outgrow them; we can only work to reduce their impact. And if we’re too proud to recognize that early on, all we’re really doing in our silence is inviting them to further define us.