Sincerity

Don’t take the nasty remarks

to heart. Don’t even

hear them. They are ignorant.

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The risk of sincerity is that people can wound you. The power of sincerity is that people can believe you.

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Why do we instinctively distrust someone who speaks sincerely in public?

Think of Marianne Williamson on the debate stage, talking about love as a political force. Think of Fred Rogers speaking into a camera and telling children and their parents that they are worthy of being loved. Neither was cynical or sarcastic. Both were mocked. In an age that reflexively suspects everyone, speaking sincerely sounds like speaking in tongues.

The public sphere has become entirely performative. Politicians test their facial expressions in mirrors before delivering “authentic” lines. Influencers write moments of vulnerability into their scripts. Even corporations now issue tear-jerking ads about the human spirit—but they are thoroughly market-tested. We long ago went through the looking glass into a surreal world where “just being real” is a brand strategy and genuineness is entirely staged.

Actual sincerity is something else entirely. It is exposure. It is saying what you mean without hedging, without trying to manage the impression it will make. That’s why it’s rare: it’s socially costly. The moment you speak without armor, you can be ridiculed, misunderstood, or attacked. So most people keep their armor on.

Plausible deniability is the preferred armor of the hardened heart. It’s a way to float an idea while still keeping the exit door open. “I was only joking” reassures your audience you’re not so naive as to believe in anything too strongly. And it signals that you, like them, are savvy enough to treat the world as a big joke. If all our public language is wrapped in protective winks, no one ever takes the sometimes shocking risk of telling the truth.

Real sincerity is shocking. It is the whistleblower stating the plain facts of corruption without hysteria. It is the neighbor who tells you, without malice, that your words hurt them. It is Mr. Rogers calmly explaining to the U.S. Senate why children’s television should be gentle and loving. These moments unsettle us because they are free of spin. They don’t beg for our approval. They stand their own ground.

The cost is real. Public personalities who speak sincerely will lose part of their audience, sometimes most of it. They will be called naive, soft, or strange. But over time, their words age differently than the rest. Deniability dates quickly, whereas sincerity can be timeless. You might cringe at an earnest statement today, only to find yourself returning to it years later, when the sarcasm has soured.

The risk of sincerity is that people can wound you. The power of sincerity is that people can believe you. In a world conditioned to distrust honest speech, a moment of unguarded truth is not just refreshing—it is radical. It breaks the tacit agreement to keep everything at a safe, performative distance.

We don’t have to speak this way all the time; no one could bear it. But now and then, in public, without a wink, we could say what we mean. Not to shock, not to score points, but simply because what we are saying is true. That simple, exposed, unadorned act is more subversive than most people think.