Why Authenticity Is the Starting Point of True Wealth

The youtube version of this article can be watched here.

To express your true opinions, to reveal your true self—these things sound simple. But it wasn’t until I was nearly forty that I realized just how difficult it is to be truly authentic. And yet, it is so essential. Whether we can live as our authentic selves determines the quality of our entire lives.

When you begin to see the value of being real—and are willing to shed the heavy layers of armor you once believed were protecting you, but were actually hiding you—you start to see who you truly are beneath it all. And only when you take real steps to live that truth from the inside out can you begin to experience a truly abundant life.

We’ve all come across the idea—through books, talks, and teachings—that we should live and express ourselves authentically. But in real life, we still often find ourselves putting on masks, cautiously playing roles that we think will bring us a sense of safety.

There’s really only one reason for this: we haven’t yet fully experienced the true importance of authenticity.

It reminds me of a story about Wang Yangming, a great Chinese philosopher. One of his students once asked, “Why is it that even when we understand a truth, we still often fail to live it out?”

Wang Yangming replied, “It’s because you haven’t truly known it yet.”

It’s like putting your hand in a fire—you don’t need to think, you’ll instantly pull it back, because your body truly knows the pain of being burned. That kind of knowing is beyond intellectual understanding. It’s embodied. It’s real.

In the same way, only when we truly understand the value of authenticity—not just as an idea, but as a felt truth in our whole being—can we begin to live it, naturally and without hesitation.

Before I entered university, I had already been participating in public speaking competitions since the third grade. Over the years—both in and out of school—I must have spoken in no fewer than a hundred events.

But two incidents left a deep mark on me: two times when I completely forgot my lines in the middle of a speech. One was in fourth grade, and the other was in my first year of high school.

If you’ve ever spoken in front of hundreds or even thousands of people, you might understand the sheer terror of forgetting your words on stage. The psychological blow in that moment feels almost as frightening as death itself.

And I experienced that not just once, but twice.

Those two moments became some of the most painful emotional wounds of my life.

But the version of myself back then didn’t know how to hold those wounds with compassion. Instead, I blamed myself—blamed myself for not memorizing the script well enough, for not being “prepared enough.” I also blamed myself for needing to prepare so carefully every time, wondering why I couldn’t just speak effortlessly, spontaneously, like some others seemed to do.

So I grew up surrounded by those two voices of self-blame—one saying, you should’ve worked harder, and the other saying, you’re not enough unless you’re naturally flawless.

Just a few mornings ago, during a meditation, the above-described deeply buried trauma surfaced. A voice kept repeating to me, “It’s time to heal this.”

I could feel both my emotions and rational mind trying to suppress that voice, as if to say, “Where did you even come from? Go back. Don’t come here causing trouble.”

But the voice wouldn’t leave. It kept returning, gently but firmly, repeating the same message: “It’s time to heal this.”

Then, as the day unfolded, I went on with my life and completely forgot about what had come up during that meditation.

Around noon, I decided to go out for a walk. Just a few minutes in, it started pouring—so intensely that it felt like the rain had cut me off from the rest of the world. I walked slowly under my umbrella, cautiously, and the sound of the rain pulled me into a deep state of focus.

And then suddenly, a voice within me asked a question I had never asked myself before—never even thought to ask:

“Those two times you forgot your lines during a speech—what was the true reason for your forgetting the lines? Was it really because you weren’t prepared enough? If not, then what made them different from the other 98 successful speeches?”

It was a question that shook me.

If I had truly given a hundred speeches, then by all logic, I should have known exactly how to prepare for each one. And those two times when I forgot my lines? They weren’t my first time on stage. I was no beginner.

In fact, I had practiced—many times. I had put in the effort. So why did I still forget my lines in those two particular speeches?

That question felt like a key unlocking an entirely new world. My eyes lit up, and almost instantly, the answer became clear.

Those were the two times I was speaking about something I didn’t care about at all. The content wasn’t mine—it didn’t come from my heart. It felt more like an empty performance. My job was simply to memorize and deliver a script written by someone else, filled with vague, hollow values designed to satisfy social expectations. The goal was to make me look polished, perfect, righteous—lovable. Like a porcelain doll in a display case: flawless, untouchable, incapable of error.

I remember trying hard to memorize those lines. I really did try. But my body couldn’t hold on to them.

And in that moment, I finally saw the truth:

Those two so-called “failures” weren’t memory lapses. They were instinctive responses from my body.

My body refused.

Refused to receive or deliver something false, empty, and disconnected from who I truly was. It wasn’t a mistake. It was the deepest kind of truth speaking through silence.

It was my body saying: This is not me.

It wasn’t until I was 39 that I finally saw the true nature of this deep psychological wound—and for the first time, I stopped blaming, resenting, judging, and attacking myself.

I began to speak to myself gently:

“You weren’t wrong. You just weren’t expressing yourself authentically.
You were simply having a physiological reaction it ever wanted was to express what it truly felt.”

After all the detours we take in this journey of life, we’re really just trying to come back to something simple:

To live as our authentic self.

That self isn’t perfect. It’s flawed. It’s vulnerable.

But that’s exactly where its beauty lies.

It reminded me of the most unforgettable speech I’ve ever given.

I was in my second year of high school. At the start of every Chinese literature class, we had a tradition: one student, in the order of our student ID numbers, would give a three-minute speech on any topic of their choice. Since everyone knew when their turn would come, most students would prepare in advance.

But on the day it was my turn, I had completely forgotten about it.

At the time, I was busy preparing for a city-wide English speech competition. In fact, just the day before that Chinese class, I had participated in the contest—and lost.

That night, heartbroken from the loss, I wrote in my diary—a letter to myself, trying to lift my own spirits and pull myself out of heartbreak and rise again.

The next day, in Chinese class, when I suddenly realized it was my turn to speak—and that I had absolutely nothing prepared—I panicked. But then, in that very moment, I remembered the words I had written the night before.

I took a deep breath, gathered myself, and walked to the front of the class. I started talking—about the competition, about how I felt when I lost, and about the words I had written to pull myself out of heartbreak and rise again.

It wasn’t a polished speech. My words weren’t well-organized. I had no idea what sentence would come next as I was speaking. I stumbled, paused, skipped over parts. But as I looked out at my classmates, I could see something in their eyes—light. They looked moved, as if my words had touched something in them too.

Somehow, the words that helped me rise from my sadness… had the power to lift others as well.

When I finished, the classroom erupted in applause. Loud, heartfelt, thunderous applause.

It was, without question, the most authentic speech I had ever given.

There were no fancy words. No rhetorical flourishes. No historical figures or famous quotes. It wasn’t perfect—in fact, it was full of flaws—but it was real. I simply shared how I felt and what I believed in that moment. That was it.

And yet, that simplicity carried so much power.
It healed something in me.

That is the power of authenticity—

It connects us. It breaks down the walls between us. It helps us feel together, understand together, and heal together.

It was precisely because I had experienced both kinds of speeches—one deeply authentic, the other completely hollow—that I was able to truly see the value of authenticity for the first time.

If I had only experienced the false, I wouldn’t have understood what makes the real so meaningful.

And if I had only experienced the real, I wouldn’t have recognized its worth either.

Authenticity and inauthenticity are like the black and white of yin and yang—they reflect each other, define each other.

Without falsehood, there would be no truth. Without truth, we wouldn’t even know what is false.

They are not enemies. They are part of a single whole. Each holds its own place, its own meaning, its own value.

Just like without “good,” there is no “bad.”
Without “short,” there is no “tall.”
Without “small,” there is no “big.”
Without pain, we wouldn’t recognize joy.
Without you, there would be no me.

We often see the world through the lens of duality—this or that, right or wrong, light or dark.

But I’ve come to realize: we are all part of a greater whole. Interconnected. Co-existing. Completing each other.

And with this realization came gratitude. Gratitude for every experience—whether it was a crushing failure or an exhilarating success. They all shine just as brightly. Each one a treasure on the path of this journey called life.

The other day, my husband and I were having tea when we noticed a stunning bouquet placed at the center of the teahouse. The flowers looked so incredibly beautiful, so perfectly in bloom, that as I admired them, I suddenly turned to him and asked,
"Are these real flowers? Or are they fake? They just look too perfect—every petal, every leaf—could they be artificial?"

He couldn’t tell either.

So I leaned in for a closer look. And that’s when I noticed it—tiny imperfections on the edges of the bouquet. A few petals had small holes, some showed slight signs of wilting.

And then I smiled and said,
“Yes, they’re real. It’s those little flaws that prove they’re real.”

The moment I said those words, I was struck by them myself—because in that instant, I had unknowingly answered a question that had puzzled me for so long.

I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be the “perfect” version of myself.
Even though I’ve made great efforts to be authentic, I still felt like I was falling short.
And now I finally understand why:
I hadn’t yet truly grasped the value of being real—more precisely, I hadn’t understood the value of being imperfect.
I couldn’t see the worth in flaws.

After all, who really likes people with flaws?

It seems like everyone is trying to hide theirs.
We go to great lengths to cover up the parts of ourselves that feel messy or broken—
and instead, we showcase only our best sides on social media, at school, at work.

We're constantly reminded to "be ourselves,"
to express our true opinions,
to pursue what we genuinely love.

But being your true self takes immense courage.
Because it means embracing—and fully accepting—your imperfections.

Imperfect skin.
An imperfect body.
Imperfect grammar.
Imperfect word choices.

The list of imperfections could go on for days.

No matter who you are—whether you're wealthy, beautiful, or healthy—there will always be at least one flaw custom-made just for you. One thing you desperately wish you could hide from the world.

And unless you can truly see the power that lives inside those imperfections, you will never be willing to take off that heavy, suffocating mask.

But it is only through flaws that our existence proves to be real—just like it's the imperfections on the petals that confirm the bouquet is truly alive.

But what about fake flowers? They're beautiful too, aren't they? They don’t need replacing. They’re cost-effective, low-maintenance, everlasting. Who wouldn’t love that?

I wouldn’t.

It’s precisely because real flowers bloom for only a short while that their beauty feels so intense, so precious—just like our lives. Would you trade your real, living life for a fake robot? Or more precisely—are you sure you’re living a real life right now? Is it possible… that you’re already living on a path pre-programmed like a robot, and you don’t even realize it?

Without flaws, how are we any different from robots? Why are we trying so hard to become perfect machines?

What’s even more ironic is this: While we’re busy erasing our imperfections, striving to become flawless like robots, robots are working just as hard to learn our flaws—so they can sound more like real humans.

Isn’t that the most absurd thing in the world?

And yet, this absurd performance has started playing. Each of us is an actor in it—rehearsing, performing, perfecting—without even realizing we’re on stage.

When I realized that it was the imperfect petals that proved the beautiful bouquet was real, my husband turned to me and said, "Exactly. Whether it's a flower in full bloom or one that's covered in flaws and about to wither—each has its own irreplaceable, precious value. Doesn’t it?"

In the age of AI, we’ll see more and more flawless faces, perfect bodies, and polished language. These AI-generated digital humans are essentially mirror reflections of our obsession with perfection—just like our beautifully curated Instagram photos. But in the not-so-distant future, what will truly be rare and precious won’t be these perfect displays, but rather the flaws that make us human. It’s our imperfections that prove we are real, flesh-and-blood beings.

And it’s those very flaws that allow us to connect, to feel together, and to heal together. Because only when we dare to show the world our imperfections can others begin to realize: it’s okay that I have flaws. It’s okay that I feel vulnerable. It’s okay that my everyday mistakes and missteps don’t make me unworthy. This version of myself—imperfect as I am—can still be fully accepted and deeply loved.

My flaws, just like all the beautiful parts of me, hold value. My existence, in and of itself, is valuable—every single moment, no matter my age, my looks, my weight. I am, unapologetically, fxxking valuable—with a worth that is unmatched, undeniable, and unshakable.

Late in his life, Picasso once said,

He had already shown us one profound truth:

To be authentic—truly authentic—is incredibly hard.

As children, we draw freely, without pressure, without fear of being wrong.
We let our imagination run wild and paint what our hearts feel.
But growing up means gradually being shaped—and sometimes confined—by the rules and expectations of the world around us.
We’re constantly being told by parents, teachers, and bosses what we should do, how we should behave.
We're criticized, corrected, punished—again and again.

Over time, these external voices become internal ones.
We start placing limits on ourselves, trying to avoid mistakes, rejection, or shame.
So we put on layers of masks and armor, trying to protect that vulnerable, real self deep inside.

Eventually, we forget how to draw what we truly feel.
We lose touch with the inner voice that once knew.
Instead, we begin painting like machines—perfectly within the lines,
every stroke calculated, every shape approved.

And slowly, we become hollow.
A robot with a paintbrush.

But Picasso—he found his way back.
He reconnected with the self he was as a child.
He reclaimed his creative soul, his freedom, his truth.
And that’s why his work moves us. That’s why it’s priceless.
Because realness is priceless.

So to every friend who’s reading this:
May you, one day, paint like a child again.
Paint your soul.
Paint your truth.
And when you do,
you’ll know what it means to live in true abundance.

-Peggie Li

The youtube version of this article can be watched here.