Lachlan Brown
What does it really mean to have integrity?
We tend to think of integrity as a kind of moral backbone: being honest when it’s hard, standing up for what’s right, keeping promises. And while all of those are certainly part of the picture, I’ve come to believe that the way we typically define integrity misses something essential.
In many circles, integrity has become a performance. A label. A brand we try to wear convincingly.
But in my own life—and through years studying psychology and Buddhist philosophy—I’ve noticed something deeper: True integrity doesn’t come from trying to be seen as a good person. It comes from letting go of the need to be seen at all.
When I stopped performing integrity, I started living it
For years, I thought integrity meant always doing the right thing—even when no one was watching. That’s what I was taught. But if I’m being honest, I often was thinking about who might be watching. Or who might find out later. I was still acting from a desire to protect an identity: the identity of someone who has integrity.
There’s a quiet ego in that—a subtle attachment to being the kind of person who does the right thing. And that attachment can twist our behavior in ways we don’t always recognize. It can make us self-righteous. It can make us judgmental. It can make us blind to the complex realities of human life.
Over time, I started to see that real integrity isn’t about preserving an identity. It’s about transcending identity. That’s where the Buddhist principle of non-self (anatta) began to reframe everything I thought I knew.
If you’re not protecting an identity, you can act more freely
According to Buddhism, the idea of a fixed, permanent self is an illusion. We are constantly changing, shaped by conditions and causes beyond our control. Clinging to a solid sense of self—”I am honest,” “I am good,” “I am right”—can actually become a source of suffering. We start defending our self-concept instead of responding wisely to life.
This insight changed the way I think about integrity.
When we stop trying to live up to a version of ourselves, we become more open to truth. Even hard truth. We can admit when we’re wrong. We can listen more deeply. We can act not from ego, but from awareness.
And that’s the paradox: People with true integrity aren’t focused on having integrity. They’re focused on reality. On truth. On doing what aligns with a deeper sense of presence—not performance.
Where identity ends, genuine action begins
Let me ask you something:
Have you ever done the “right” thing but secretly hoped someone would notice?
Have you ever refused to change your mind because you didn’t want to look inconsistent?
Have you ever acted morally just to avoid guilt or criticism?
If so, welcome to the human experience. We all do it. But it’s in those moments that the illusion of self gets in the way of true integrity.
The psychologist Carl Rogers spoke of “congruence“—a state where our actions align with our inner truth. But what if that “inner truth” is constantly evolving? What if being congruent doesn’t mean being consistent with who you were yesterday—but being honest about who you are now?
That’s the kind of integrity that grows in the absence of a fixed self.
Let go of looking good—and start being real
I once worked with a client who always said the right things. She was known in her community as a person of high moral character. But privately, she felt like a fraud. Every time she made a decision, she filtered it through how others would perceive it. She feared being called a hypocrite, so she clung tightly to consistency—even when it conflicted with her evolving understanding of truth.
We worked on a practice of “dropping the mask”—sitting in silence, letting go of narratives, and simply noticing what arose without judgment. At first, it terrified her. But over time, she started to feel a strange freedom. She could be honest without needing to be impressive. She could be kind without needing to be admired.
That’s the freedom of non-self. It doesn’t mean we lose our values. It means we stop needing to prove them.
Why our culture often gets integrity wrong
Modern culture tends to reward consistency and clarity. You’re expected to know who you are and stick to it. But integrity, in its deepest sense, sometimes means changing—even when that change confuses people.
The Buddhist monk Ajahn Chah once said, “If you let go a little, you’ll have a little peace. If you let go a lot, you’ll have a lot of peace. If you let go completely, you’ll have complete peace.”
In the context of integrity, letting go means releasing the need to appear consistent. It means being courageous enough to change your views, to admit your contradictions, to act from present-moment clarity instead of past identity.
That kind of integrity doesn’t always look neat. It doesn’t always fit a brand. But it’s real.
Practical reflection: Are you defending an identity or responding to life?
Take a few minutes with these questions:
In what areas of life am I performing a version of myself rather than living authentically?
What would change if I stopped needing to appear consistent?
Where am I afraid to admit that I’ve changed?
What values feel alive and real to me today—not just inherited from the past?
These aren’t easy questions. But in my experience, the people who wrestle with them honestly are the ones who start embodying true integrity—because they’re not trying to look good. They’re trying to be real.
Where psychology meets Buddhism, integrity becomes freedom
In Western psychology, we often talk about values-based living. In Buddhism, we speak of non-attachment. Put them together, and you get something profound: the ability to act with integrity without clinging to the identity of being someone who has integrity.
It’s a quiet revolution. It’s subtle. And it won’t win you any medals.
But it will bring you peace.
And in a noisy world obsessed with image, that’s a radical act.
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