She was not able to tell lies, so she convinced herself it was easier to simply not tell the whole truth. After all, you could shorten it, leave out a few facts, and it would still be still the truth—just a simplified version, a half-truth.
From childhood, we are taught that lying is wrong, that it’s unacceptable, even forbidden. And yet, as children, sometimes we have to lie to protect ourselves. To survive. Sometimes children say things that aren’t true without even understanding what a lie is. They just say something—and it saves them in a difficult situation.
Even if rules about lying are not taught at home, they will will learn them at school, in religious education classes, where they will be warned about sin, confession, and punishment. And that’s where fear begins.
She was around seven years old when her father told her he was proud of her because she never lied. He admired her for it. And she, daddy’s little girl, thought: I should not lie. Dad loves me only when I’m honest, trustworthy, truthful. She was so proud of herself.
And yet… her father sometimes lied. Her mother did too. So did the dentist who held the pliers behind his back, saying, There’s nothing to be afraid of—just waiting for her to open her mouth so he could pull out her baby tooth. The nurse lied when she gave her an injection, promising, It won’t hurt. Her grandparents lied, saying they felt fine, only to be rushed to the hospital soon after. These were white lies—meant to protect, to prevent worry.
For years, she carried this inner conflict. It exhausted her, trying to figure out who was really telling the truth. And which truth was actually true—theirs or hers? And then she started to wonder… Did certain events really happen? Or was someone else’s version of the story the real one, not the one she remembered?
When she was nine, her friend’s mother was pregnant. They were pretty close. The friend told everyone it was a girl, she even shared the baby’s name. One day, she excitedly announced her little sister had been born—describing her in such vivid detail that no one doubted or questioned it.
But then, visiting her friend’s house, she saw her mother was still pregnant. Strange… hadn’t the baby been born days ago? Her friend ran to her mom and tried to hide her pregnency belly. There was no crib, no baby clothes, no diapers. She started to question: Am I seeing the truth? Or am I misunderstanding something?
A week later, the baby was born—a boy. The lie was exposed. And when asked why she had lied, her friend just stayed silent, as if nothing had happened.
As a teenager, she saw her peers lie effortlessly—to teachers, parents, friends. And they got away with it. She didn’t comment. What was the point? Sometimes, silence was easier. Often, she said nothing to avoid hurting someone, to avoid making them uncomfortable with her truth.
Over time, she found a solution—she told half-truths. She shared only the facts and opinions she believed were acceptable to others. Just enough to avoid offending anyone. To keep everyone happy. Because if she told the whole truth, they might stop liking her.
She rarely told anyone what she really thought.
Confession in church always felt like a lie to her. Why go and say you’ll change when you know you’ll be back soon, saying the same thing again? But everyone played this game, so eventually, she did too. Because that’s what “tradition” expected. Church had always seemed suspicious to her—she never felt connected to it.
It wasn’t until adulthood, through deep inner work, that she finally saw the pattern. It was such an enlightenment to her. First came grief—how much had she missed out on? Parties, trips, holding hands, first kisses, sleepovers… all because she wouldn’t lie, or because she only told half-truths.
She realized that half-truths create emptiness. That, in reality, they’re half-lies. And for years, she had been deluding herself—believing that lying was always bad and she is the good girl who never lied. And for that half-lie, she unconsciously punished herself— with back pain, with aching legs…. She never connected those symptoms to the burden of half-truths/half-lies.
And yet, lies have saved lives. History proves it—during wars, in concentration camps—people changed their names, their birthdates, their identities to survive.
We do the same as children. As adults. Sometimes we lie to protect ourselves. To escape a situation. To find peace.
Let’s remember—lying can be a survival mechanism, a form of protection, not just something to punish ourselves for.
And you? Do you remember a time when a lie saved you? Or perhaps a family story where a lie protected someone’s life?
