The other day, I was put in an impossible position—the kind of moment that splits your life into a before-and-after.

You know the ones: when a simple lie could smooth the edges of a jagged reality, keep the world spinning neatly on its axis, and spare everyone the pain of truth. But instead, the words catch in your throat, your mind freezes, and the truth escapes raw, unfiltered, uninvited.

I grew up in a house where lying was beaten out of me, not metaphorically, but literally. A lie was met with the sharpest punishments, with words that cut deeper than any belt or hand ever could. I learned to equate lying with danger, shame, and punishment. So I shaped my identity around being honest, sometimes brutally so. I wore it as armor, a shield I could hold up to the world to say: Look, I am good. I am trustworthy. I am safe.

Before this moment, I never wanted to lie. Honesty felt like a safe path even if it meant losing people, disappointing them, or standing alone. But in this moment… oh, how I wanted to lie. More than anything, I wanted to offer a comforting falsehood, to shield hearts from breaking and lives from unraveling.

But when the time came, I froze. I felt that old familiar tension in my chest, the one that used to come right before punishment. The weight of my upbringing pressed down on me, suffocating. And instead of telling the gentle lie that could have protected everyone, I choked out the truth.

And with that truth, something shifted. I saw faces fall, heard the silent cracks echo between us. I watched as the trajectory of lives — not just mine — began to bend in ways I could not control.

The guilt wasn’t just about hurting someone with honesty; it was about betraying the new part of me that wanted, just this once, to be merciful with a lie. The child in me, the one who learned that lies meant survival, collided violently with the adult who had spent a lifetime trying to do the “right” thing.

In that moment, I realized that honesty isn’t always the noble, sparkling choice we like to believe it is. Sometimes, it’s a knife. Sometimes, it’s a wrecking ball. And sometimes, it’s a truth no one is ready to hear, not even the one speaking it.

I don’t know if courage or cowardice kept me from lying that day. I only know that it was deeply human, messy, flawed, and painful.

What I do know is this: we can’t always choose the perfect version of ourselves in moments of crisis. We can only stand there, frozen, trying to do right by the versions of ourselves we’ve been, and the people we love, even as the truth sets fires we can’t put out.

Maybe in another life, I would have lied. Maybe in that other life, people would be happier today. But this is my life my imperfect, honest, heart-aching life. And I’m still learning to forgive myself for the truths I tell, and the lies I can’t.

-🦩