Your Excuses Are Lies

I used to be a master of excuses.

Not the obvious kind—the “my dog ate my homework” or “traffic was bad” variety. Mine were more subtle, socially acceptable, and even praised at times. I wrapped them in logic, tied them with ribbons of humility, and tucked them neatly behind the word “can’t.”

“I can’t go back to school. I’m too old.”

“I can’t quit this job. It pays the bills.”

“I can’t start that project. I don’t have time.”

“I can’t chase my dreams. What if I fail?”

These weren’t just thoughts. They became my truth. My safety blanket. My shield.

But one day, that shield cracked.

It was a regular Tuesday. I was at a coffee shop, laptop open, pretending to work. I say “pretending” because, in truth, I had opened the same document for the seventh time that week and had written nothing. I’d been telling myself I was going to write a book for years. The story lived inside me like a caged bird, fluttering, restless—but never free.

An older man sat down at the table beside me. He smiled and nodded, and I did the polite thing and smiled back. After a few minutes, I noticed he kept glancing at the screen of my laptop. Embarrassed, I minimized the window.

“You a writer?” he asked gently.

I hesitated. “Trying to be.”

He laughed lightly. “That’s a fancy way of saying ‘no.’ You either are, or you aren’t.”

I shrugged, a little defensive. “Well, I want to be. But I don’t have much time lately.”

He nodded slowly, sipping his coffee. “You know, I used to say that about painting. Wanted to paint for over 30 years. Said I didn’t have the time, or the right tools, or the talent. Then one day, I turned 68 and realized I had lied to myself for three decades.”

That hit me harder than I expected.

He continued, “Your excuses aren’t reasons. They’re lies you’ve believed long enough to call truth.”

I sat there stunned. I didn’t even ask his name. He finished his coffee, stood, and left. Just like that. But his words stayed. Long after the chair he’d occupied was empty, I was still sitting with the weight of his truth.

I closed my laptop and walked home without my usual playlist in my ears. I needed silence. I needed to listen to something I’d been ignoring for years: the part of me that knew I was capable of more.

That night, I opened a blank document and started writing. Not with a plan. Not with a title. Just raw, honest truth. I wrote for an hour. Then two. I fell asleep at 3 a.m. with a smile on my face for the first time in months.

I’d love to say that was the night everything changed. It wasn’t.

The truth is, the next morning, my doubts returned. So did the excuses. “It’s just a phase.” “You were just inspired by that guy.” “You don’t really have what it takes.”

But this time, something was different. I saw the excuses for what they were.

Lies.

It didn’t happen overnight. But over the next few months, I made small changes. I set aside 30 minutes a day to write—no matter what. I stopped saying, “I don’t have time,” and started saying, “It’s not a priority,” and if that felt wrong in my gut, I knew I had to make it one.

I read more. I shared my work, even when it terrified me. I started calling myself a writer.

Because I was.

And every time the excuses crept back, I reminded myself: Your excuses are lies.

They’re fear in disguise. They sound reasonable, but they steal your potential. They protect your comfort zone, not your purpose.

The lie that I wasn’t good enough? A cowardly whisper.

The lie that I didn’t have time? A lazy default.

The lie that I might fail? A distraction from the fact that not trying is the real failure.

I eventually finished the first draft of my book. It took two years. I cried when I typed the last sentence. Not because it was perfect—it wasn’t—but because I had finally done the thing I told myself I couldn’t.

Now, whenever I talk to people who say, “I wish I could do what you did,” I listen carefully.

They say, “I don’t have your talent.”

“I’m not as confident as you.”

“I have kids, a job, responsibilities.”

I nod, and I hear the echoes of my old self. I never argue. But if they’re open to it, I tell them gently:

“I used to believe all of that too. But here’s the truth—your excuses are lies.”

And I say it not to shame, but to free them.

Because the moment you stop believing your excuses is the moment your life begins to change.

Moral / Life Lesson:

Your excuses are not protecting you—they’re limiting you.

Behind every excuse is a fear. Face it. Behind every “I can’t” is a choice. Change it.

You are more capable, more powerful, and more ready than your excuses allow you to believe.

The moment you stop lying to yourself is the moment you start living your truth.

And that truth? It’s beautiful. It's possible. And it's yours to claim.