The Power Of Being Real

The number one feedback I get about my column is that it feels relatable. People tell me, “Wow, what you wrote was so real and relatable.” And honestly, that’s the best compliment I could ever receive.

What’s funny is I never really intended to share my story. It just kind of… happened. And then the responses came pouring in. But to be honest, I was surprised. Because, at the end of the day, is my life really all that relatable? My mother dying so young. Reinventing my career a million times. Feeling stuck in that strange place as part of the “sandwich generation.” Caring for kids while also caring for aging parents. To me, these things feel personal and specific to me. Yet, people keep saying they felt that way too.

It made me realize something important. Maybe the stories that we think set us apart are actually the ones that connect us most deeply.

I’ll give you an example. Some time ago, I was sitting in the hospital with my mother, and for those who have ever experienced this, we were scheduled to be there at 7 a.m. in order to catch the doctors while they were doing their rounds. They came in rambling a lot of medical jargon, half of which I forgot 30 seconds later, and was supposed to remember it so I could relate the message to my brother that was handling her medical care. Just then, my phone buzzed with texts from my kids. One needed a ride, one forgot something for school, and another one was upset about something. In that moment, I felt pulled in two directions, like no matter where I turned, I was failing someone. Later, when I shared that experience, many people said, “Yes. That’s me every single day.” It turns out I wasn’t unique. I was part of the nearly 60% of adults in America who identify as part of the sandwich generation.

Last week I shared something deeply personal that I was carrying for a long time. For months I would sit down to write about it, then stop. I would say to myself, “Not this week. Maybe next week.” And then next week would come, and I still couldn’t do it.

But finally, I did.

For those of you who missed it, I shared that I stutter. And not in small, occasional ways; my stuttering has been the soundtrack of my life. And here’s the irony: my job revolves around speaking. I speak all day to clients, at events, in front of people. My dream is to be a TED Talk speaker. Do you know how absurd that feels? Imagine standing on a stage with a microphone and the words just don’t cooperate.

I don’t personally know anyone who stutters and works in the same position I do. The only person I ever heard of who gave me hope was James Earl Jones, the famous actor whose career was literally built on his voice. Imagine: Darth Vader himself struggled with a stutter! If he could transform that challenge into a gift, then maybe I could too. And then there was King George VI, the “king who stuttered,” who had to find his voice to lead a nation through war. If he could broadcast to millions, then perhaps I could keep showing up for my much smaller audiences.

And maybe someone reading this feels the same way. Maybe they’ve been hiding, shrinking, embarrassed by their own personal struggle. If hearing me say this out loud makes them feel less alone, then maybe it matters.

I hate the cliché that if even one person feels less alone, then it’s worth it. But the truth is, I would have given anything years ago to read about someone who stuttered like me, yet still chased their dreams and didn’t let any impediment stop them.

Here’s a funny thing. As I sit here writing this column which, due to the yuntif schedule, last week’s article hasn’t even been published yet, I don’t know how it will resonate. I don’t know if anyone will write back to me, or if the words will just sit quietly on the paper. But I know how I feel when I hit send. Lighter. Braver.

Why was I so scared in the first place? Because I have a speech impediment? Because there are moments when words get stuck? Big deal. Isn’t that actually the point—that I keep showing up anyway? That I keep working on something that’s hard for me?

Maybe that’s the whole reason we’re here: not to master life and make it look effortless, but to keep working on the parts that challenge us the most. To keep growing in the places where we once felt small.

For so long, I thought those experiences made me weak. Like my constant career reinventions; at times it felt embarrassing. I pictured people looking at me and thinking, “Does she ever stick with anything?” But then recently a client said something that made me think. “It’s funny,” she said. “You talk about reinvention as if it’s a weakness. But do you know how powerful it is that you’re so multifaceted? That you’ve lived through so many paths and can draw from all of them? That’s not unstable. That’s incredible.”

I realized at that moment that what I had labeled a flaw was actually my superpower. People didn’t connect to the polished version of me; they connected to the messy, layered version. The one who had lived, failed, started over, and kept going.

Honestly, maybe that’s why so many of us love our group chats or Facebook groups. Sure, some people dismiss it as “misery loves company,” but I don’t think that’s fair. I think it’s relief. It’s hearing one person admit, “My house is a disaster and I’m super behind with work and I have nothing in my fridge and I did not even start making supper let alone prepare for Shabbos and I fed my kids frozen waffles for dinner.” After hearing that, suddenly everyone else can exhale. Finally, someone went first. Finally, we’re not alone.

Because, let’s be real: we all know people who act like they have it all together. The ones who never show up with a stain on their shirt, whose kids are always perfectly behaved, whose lives seem like one Pinterest board after another. And let’s admit it: We don’t connect to them. Maybe we admire them for a second, but deep down, it just makes us feel worse. I mean, I don’t know about you, but if you tell me you serve a four-course meal every night and your house is perfectly organized and your kids never fight or cry, I’m not thinking, “Wow, you’re amazing.” I’m thinking, “Clearly, you’re lying.”

Perfection isn’t connection. It’s distance.

There’s even research to prove this. Psychologists call it the Pratfall Effect, the idea that people who admit to mistakes or show vulnerability are actually more likable than those who seem flawless. In other words, imperfections don’t turn people off. They draw them in.

And that’s what I’ve seen again and again. Every time I press “send” on a column I feel nervous about, thinking that maybe I shared too much. That column ends up being the one people respond to most. Those are the weeks I get messages like, “Thank you, I thought I was the only one,” or, “That’s exactly how I feel.”

It’s funny, isn’t it? We spend so much of our lives trying to look put together, when really, people love us most when we let the cracks show.

I’ve come to see that as my turning point. For years, I thought vulnerability was weakness. But now, I realize it’s my strength. My grief, my reinventions, my struggles, they are not scars to hide. They’re the very things that make me human, and being human is what people connect to.

So maybe that’s the lesson for all of us. Maybe we need to stop performing so much, stop pretending so much. Because maybe we’re not here to impress each other. Maybe we’re here to connect.

And connection begins with being real. 

Tamara Gestetner is a certified mediator, psychotherapist, and life and career coach based in Cedarhurst.  She helps individuals and couples navigate relationships, career transitions, and life’s uncertainties with clarity and confidence. Through mediation and coaching, she guides clients in resolving conflicts, making tough decisions, and creating meaningful change. Tamara is now taking questions and would love to hear what’s on your mind—whether it’s about life, career, relationships, or anything in between. She can be reached at 646-239-5686 or via email at [email protected]. Please visit TamaraGestetner.com to learn more.