It sounded too grim and worthy for my taste.

A few years ago, when I read the reviews of Raynor Winn’s memoir, The Salt Path, it sounded too grim and worthy for my taste. 

But my taste is not everyone’s: the book has sold 2 million copies and the movie is box-office hit with Gillian Anderson and Jason Isaacs.

The Salt Path was billed as an unflinchingly honest story: Winn and her husband, suddenly homeless and facing his terminal diagnosis, walked the south-west coast path and found redemption in nature.

Except, it turns out, maybe not.

Recently, The Observer claimed that much of it was embellished or invented.
That they weren’t truly homeless (they had a house in France).
Her husband wasn’t as ill as described.
Their financial woes, it turns out, stemmed from the fact that she’d stolen £64,000 from a former employer.

Winn denies it all, but the damage is done. What was sold as “authentic” now feels… shaky.

And that’s what caught me.
We say we want authenticity, in books, in movies, in influencers, in politicians, in leaders.
But authenticity is slippery. Winn’s story felt authentic to millions of readers. It inspired them. But it may not have been true.

That’s the tightrope leaders walk too.
Your people don’t want a polished mask. They want to feel the real you. But if “authenticity” shades into exaggeration, omission, or spin… sooner or later the truth catches up. And the fallout is worse than if you’d just been honest from the start.

For me the lesson is simple:
Authenticity isn’t about performance.
And truthfulness is just as important.
What you say has to match what’s real, even if it’s messy, incomplete, uncomfortable or even a bit boring.

Because people will forgive imperfection.
But they rarely forgive betrayal.

How do you balance being authentic with being honest?