5 Existential Truths from The Courage to Be That Will Inspire You to Embrace Your Authentic Self

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Some mornings, you wake up, and the weight of existence sits on your chest like a cat that doesn’t care if you can breathe.

You shuffle to the mirror, look yourself in the eyes, and wonder if this is it. The bills, the awkward small talk, the slow crawl toward some distant, unmarked grave. You think about all the motivational posters in the world, all the “live, laugh, love” nonsense that doesn’t seem to apply when your bones feel heavier than the stars.

This is where Paul Tillich steps in—not with a warm hug or a pat on the back, but with the kind of hard truth that lands like a shot of whiskey. It burns going down, but there’s fire in it. The Courage to Be doesn’t sugarcoat anything. It grabs you by the collar and says, “Yes, life’s terrifying. Yes, you’re going to die. And yes, it’s still worth it.”

So here’s the deal: we’re diving into five truths from Tillich’s book that might not solve all your problems, but they’ll give you the tools to face them head-on. Grab a drink, metaphorically or literally, and let’s get into it.

The Man Behind the Message

Paul Tillich wasn’t your average theologian. Born in 1886 in Germany, Tillich lived through the kinds of history that could crush a person’s spirit—the devastation of two World Wars, the rise of fascism, and the existential vacuum left behind when old certainties crumbled.

He was kicked out of Nazi Germany for refusing to toe the party line and ended up in America, where he spent his days writing, teaching, and contemplating the kind of deep questions most people avoid like the plague.

Tillich’s genius was his ability to blend philosophy, theology, and psychology into a kind of existential stew. He looked at human existence not as a problem to be solved, but as a mystery to be lived.

When he published The Courage to Be in 1952, the world was hungry for answers, reeling from war and the threat of nuclear annihilation. Tillich didn’t offer easy answers. He offered courage.

1. Anxiety is the Price of Admission

You’re not broken for feeling anxious. You’re not weak for waking up some days and feeling like the ground beneath you is about to give out. Tillich tells us that existential anxiety—the fear of death, meaninglessness, guilt—is baked into being human. It’s the price we pay for having the kind of brains that can think beyond breakfast.

Tillich doesn’t want you to escape this anxiety. He wants you to live with it, to use it as fuel.

Anxiety, he says, isn’t the enemy. It’s a sign that you’re alive, that you’re grappling with the big stuff. So next time you feel the walls closing in, remind yourself: This is part of it. This is what it means to be here.

2. Everybody’s in the Same Boat

Here’s something strange and oddly comforting: you’re not special. Not when it comes to your struggles, your fears, your sleepless nights staring at the ceiling.

That heavy pit in your stomach, that nagging voice that tells you you’re not enough, not strong enough, not smart enough—that’s not yours alone.

It’s a tune the whole world knows by heart. Your neighbor knows it, your barista hums it under their breath, even the guy who cuts you off in traffic has his own verse to sing.

Tillich says this anxiety we carry, this existential weight, isn’t some rare affliction. It’s not the universe picking on you or some cruel twist of fate.

No, this is the price of admission. It’s the shared condition of being human, the cost of living with a mind that knows too much and a heart that feels too deeply.

But don’t mistake this for dismissal. Your pain is real—it burns, it stings, it scars. No one’s saying it doesn’t matter. What Tillich wants you to see is that your pain is part of something bigger.

It’s not a private hell; it’s a common ground. It’s the thread that ties you to every other soul stumbling through this strange, messy life.

And here’s the beauty in that truth: you’re not drowning alone. For every time you feel the water rising, there’s someone else out there paddling just as hard, gasping for air, fighting the same current.

There’s a whole ocean of us, arms flailing, heads barely above water, but moving—together. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what keeps us afloat.

3. Fear is a Shadow, Not a Wall

Tillich doesn’t dance around it: fear is as real as the morning light that slants through your window, as steady as the tick of the clock counting down your hours.

It’s not something you can banish with a pep talk or bury under a mountain of distractions. Fear sits in the corner of your room like an old, unwelcome guest, always watching, always waiting for the right moment to remind you it’s there.

But here’s the thing Tillich wants you to know: Fear isn’t the final chapter. It’s not the end of the road, even though it might feel like a brick wall when it looms large in front of you.

Fear is more like a shadow that swells under the glare of your own imagination, stretching itself out until it seems insurmountable. But shadows, as big and dark as they might appear, have no weight. They’re tricks of the light.

Courage, Tillich says, doesn’t mean erasing fear. It doesn’t mean conquering it in some grand, triumphant gesture. No, courage is quieter, humbler, and harder than that.

It’s about standing up when your knees are shaking. It’s about taking one small, unsteady step forward, even when every instinct tells you to turn back. It’s about whispering, “I see you,” to your fear and walking into the unknown anyway.

Fear isn’t going anywhere. It’ll always be there, trailing behind you, cropping up when you least expect it. But courage—real courage—is what happens when you stop letting fear grip the reins of your life. It’s when you decide, no matter how loud the doubts scream or how heavy the weight feels, that fear doesn’t get to dictate the story. You do.

And maybe the act of walking through fear, step by shaky step, is how you find yourself on the other side—stronger, freer, and more alive than you thought possible.

4. Faith Isn’t About Certainty

Let’s get one thing straight: Faith, according to Tillich, isn’t about believing in some magical safety net that’ll catch you if you fall.

Faith is about trust. Trust in the process, trust in life, trust in something bigger than yourself—even if you don’t know what that something is.

Tillich calls this the “God above God.” It’s not about dogma or religion. It’s about finding the courage to lean into the unknown, to let go of the need for absolute certainty, and to trust that you’re part of something bigger.

5. Authenticity is the Only Way Out

Tillich’s last truth cuts like a dull blade: the courage to be is the courage to be yourself.

Not that pre-packaged, shrink-wrapped version you trot out to keep the wolves at bay.

Not the sanitized mannequin you put on display to keep the peace.

I’m talking about the raw, unvarnished, goddamned mess of you. The real you. The scars, the cracks, the busted dreams, and that tiny, stubborn ember of hope you thought was long dead.

It’s terrifying. Stepping into the world as the you you barely let yourself know is like walking naked into a room full of judges sharpening their knives.

It’s risking their sideways glances, their curled lips, their muttered “not good enoughs.” It’s signing up for rejection and failure with no guarantee of applause at the end of the act.

Tillich knew the truth, though: there’s no other way to really live.

Anything else is just dressing up a corpse and calling it a good time. You can play it safe, sure. Pretend. Survive. But you’ll know deep down that you sold the only thing you ever really had—yourself—for the illusion of comfort.

And you’ll wonder, late at night, what might have been if you’d had the guts to stand there, naked and true, no matter the cost.

Closing Thoughts

Tillich doesn’t hand you a magic cure for life’s problems. What he offers instead is a compass.

He reminds you that life is hard, that fear is real, but that courage is possible.

The courage to be is the courage to face life on its own terms—to accept the anxiety, to trust the process, and to show up as your authentic self, no matter how messy it gets.

So next time life feels like a cruel joke, remember: The punchline is that you’re still here, still trying, still alive. And that, my friend, is worth everything.

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