I often joke that I’m “uncool”. Not in the self-pitying sense, but in the sense that I’ve stopped trying to bend myself into whatever shape the world thinks is acceptable at that moment. To me, being uncool is the most liberating thing I’ve ever embraced. It simply means being myself — I, Mohit Riz, without the masks, without the pretence, without the endless need for approval.
Of course, it wasn’t always this way. In my younger years, like many people, I wanted to fit in. I wanted to dress the way others did, to sound like I knew the right things, to be liked, admired, respected. And in chasing all that, I sometimes found myself further away from who I really was. I remember walking into certain rooms and almost rehearsing the version of “Mohit” I thought I needed to be — the witty one, the serious one, the ambitious one. Each role had its use, but each chipped away at something inside.
The turning point came slowly, not in one dramatic moment, but in a series of small realisations. A friend once said to me after a long conversation, “I like you better when you stop trying to be impressive.” At first I laughed it off, but later it struck me — how much of my energy was spent trying to be “impressive”, and how little was spent just being present?
Living authentically doesn’t mean I’ve figured everything out. It means I’ve chosen to stop pretending. Some days, authenticity looks like admitting I don’t have the answers. Other days, it’s saying no when everything in me wants to say yes just to please someone. And sometimes it’s simply about admitting when I’m tired, when I’m struggling, when I’m not as strong as I’d like to appear.
It’s funny — when you drop the performance, people actually respond better. The friendships deepen. The conversations get more honest. I’ve had moments where I confessed doubts or shared failures I thought would make me look weak, and instead they became the bridges that brought me closer to others. Vulnerability, I’ve learnt, is not a weakness but a form of truth-telling.
That doesn’t mean it’s easy. We live in a world that rewards the curated version of ourselves. Scroll through any social media feed and you’ll see polished highlights, carefully chosen angles, stories of success. Rarely do you see the sleepless nights, the mistakes, the insecurities. It’s tempting to play along with that game. But I’ve learnt that the price of constant performance is too high. You end up living for validation instead of living for yourself.
One memory stands out. A few years ago, I was at a dinner where everyone seemed to be boasting about their achievements. I sat there listening, nodding politely, but inside I felt detached. When it came to my turn, instead of rattling off a list, I simply said, “Honestly, it’s been a hard year. I’m just grateful to still be standing.” The table went quiet, then one person smiled and said, “Same here.” And just like that, the conversation shifted. People started sharing real struggles, real worries. It was a reminder that authenticity has a way of giving others permission to be real too.
For me, living authentically also means holding on to the things that bring me joy, even if they don’t look “cool” to anyone else. It means training Muay Thai not because it’s trendy, but because it keeps me grounded. It means listening to old songs that remind me of Peru, even if no one else around me knows them. It means writing in spaces like this, not to impress, but to express.
I won’t pretend I’ve perfected it. There are still moments I slip back into performance, still times I feel the urge to hide parts of myself. But more and more, I choose to step into honesty instead. To be seen, even if imperfectly.
Because at the end of the day, authenticity is not about being flawless. It’s about being real. And I’d rather be remembered for that — for being the “uncool” version of myself — than for any mask I could ever wear.