The Lie I Told Myself Until I Faced the Truth

I used to tell myself a very convincing story: “I’m fine.”

It was my shield, my script, my automatic response to anyone who asked how I was doing. No matter how deep the ache in my chest, no matter how restless my nights or how heavy my days felt, those two words rolled off my tongue so easily it almost sounded true.

For years, I wore “I’m fine” like armor. Friends would check in, and I’d smile, shrug, and change the subject. At work, I drowned myself in tasks so I wouldn’t have to think. At home, I distracted myself with TV or scrolling endlessly through social media. Anything to avoid the quiet moments, because in the quiet, I could hear the truth knocking.

And I wasn’t ready to let it in.

The Comfort of a Lie

It’s strange, the way a lie can feel safer than the truth. My lie gave me the illusion of control. It allowed me to keep going without having to confront the messy, complicated reality of my emotions.

In truth, I was lonely. Not the “I just need more friends” kind of lonely — but the kind that seeps into your bones. I felt invisible, like I was living life on the sidelines, watching everyone else move forward while I stayed stuck in the same place.

Admitting that to myself felt terrifying. What if it meant I was broken? What if it meant nothing could change? So, I convinced myself there was no problem at all.

The Cracks in the Story

The first cracks in my lie appeared slowly. I remember one evening, sitting in the park with a coffee, watching a mother play with her toddler. Their laughter was so full and free that it hit me like a wave — I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt joy like that.

A lump formed in my throat, and I pushed it down quickly. You’re fine, I told myself.

But little moments kept breaking through. A friend asked why I’d been so distant lately. My boss noticed my work had lost its spark. Even my own reflection started to look different — like my eyes were carrying a truth my words refused to acknowledge.

The Breaking Point

The turning point came on an ordinary Tuesday. I was standing in line at the grocery store when an older woman in front of me dropped her wallet. I picked it up and handed it back. She smiled warmly and said, “Thank you, dear. You’ve got kind eyes.”

Kind eyes.

I don’t know why those two words undid me, but they did. Something about them pierced through my defenses, as if she saw past the “I’m fine” into the lonely, tired soul underneath.

I went home, sat on my bed, and for the first time in years, I didn’t turn on the TV or scroll through my phone. I just sat there, staring at the wall, and finally let the truth out.

“I’m not fine.”

And I cried — deep, shaking sobs that seemed to pour out everything I had been holding in. It was raw, messy, and exhausting. But when the tears stopped, there was a strange lightness in my chest, like I’d been carrying a weight I didn’t even realize was there.

Facing the Truth

From that moment, I decided I wouldn’t lie to myself anymore. The truth was simple: I needed connection. I needed to be honest about my feelings, even if it felt uncomfortable.

I called a close friend and told her how I’d been feeling. She listened, really listened, without judgment. She told me she had noticed I’d been pulling away but didn’t know how to reach me. That conversation was the first step.

Over the weeks that followed, I started therapy. I joined a local book club, even though my anxiety told me I’d be awkward and out of place. I began journaling each morning, not to make my feelings disappear but to give them space to exist.

Slowly, my life began to feel different — not because everything became perfect, but because I was living in truth.

The Freedom of Honesty

Here’s what I learned: telling yourself the truth doesn’t magically fix everything, but it opens the door to healing. My lie kept me safe from discomfort, but it also kept me from joy, connection, and growth.

Now, when someone asks me how I’m doing, I don’t default to “I’m fine.” I tell them the truth — maybe not every gritty detail, but enough to be real. And in return, I’ve noticed people open up to me too.

Honesty has a way of creating space for others to be honest as well.

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Thank you for reading

Best Regards: Habib