There is a lie we tell ourselves. Not once. Not occasionally. But repeatedly, quietly, and consistently. It does not announce itself when you wake up in the morning. It does not sit across from you and say, “Today, let’s pretend.”
No. It is far more subtle than that. It whispers, and
because it whispers, we trust it. Over time, that lie becomes so familiar that
we no longer recognize it as a lie. It becomes the truth.
At the core of this lie lies something deeply human. A need
so primal, so ancient, that it has shaped civilizations, religions, and
relationships. The need to belong. To be seen. To be heard. To be
appreciated. And when that need feels threatened, we do something
fascinating. We bend reality with all our mental faculties—our logic, our
reasoning, our intelligence—to keep that lie alive.
Not outwardly—most of us are not bold enough to lie to the
world. But inwardly? We become master storytellers. We craft narratives. We
edit the truth. We suppress discomfort. All to keep the illusion alive.
I often say that one of the deepest needs we carry is not
success, not money, nor even achievement. It is finding significance through
connection; the urge to be seen, heard, and appreciated.
And loneliness?
Loneliness is more than discomfort. For some, it is
unbearable. For others, it feels like death. So, they will do
anything—anything—to avoid it. Fill the space. Call someone. Scroll endlessly.
Stay busy. We keep the lights on inside with stories that make us feel okay,
even when everything inside us is not.
The idea of being alone is foreign to most human beings.
Truly foreign. Doubly, human beings do not do well in isolation. Even those who
claim independence often carry invisible threads of attachment. Yes, there are
outliers. Men like Enoch—who walked so deeply with God that they transcended
ordinary human experience. Men who walked so deeply in alignment that they
could exist apart from the noise of humanity and thrive.
But most of us? We are not Enoch. We oscillate between
craving connection and fearing exposure, between wanting to belong and hiding
who we really are. If you have ever tried to sit with yourself—no phone, no
noise, no distraction—you know this. There is a discomfort that rises. A
restlessness. Almost like your body is rejecting stillness.
And it is in that tension that the lie is born. Not to
others first, but to ourselves.
The Making of a Perfect Couple
Let me show you how this plays out with a story about John.
John is a runner. A serious one. Not the kind who jogs occasionally to clear
his head. John is disciplined. Structured. Relentless. He can run a marathon in
under three hours and ten minutes. Now, if you know anything about running, you
understand what that means. That is not casual effort; it's an identity. Most
people struggle to run even 5 km. John stands out.
And John knows this, so he shares it. The Strava
screenshots. The times. The achievements. And every time someone says, “Gosh, I
wish I were like you…” something happens inside him. Something stirs. A lift. A
relief. For a brief moment, the darkness that sits quietly in his heart loosens
its grip, because what people don’t see is that John is not just running toward
something. He is running away. Coping.
John battles depression. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind.
The kind that sits with you in the morning, before the day begins. The kind
that follows you even when everything “looks fine.”
He has a family. He has a business. And that business is a
mixed bag. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. He is active in the church.
Respected. Trusted. A voice of reason.
His marriage is broken. Not visibly. Not publicly. But
internally, it has collapsed. His wife, Angela, is distant. There is
betrayal—on both sides. Unspoken. Unresolved. Unhealed.
And then there is the thing John cannot talk about. The
thing that has quietly eroded his sense of identity as a man. Erectile
dysfunction. You must understand what this does to a man, especially one who is
seen as strong, capable, and respected. It is not just physical. It is
existential.
So, what does John do? He runs. This is what psychology
calls ego sublimation. It takes raw, uncomfortable emotional energy—shame,
anger, and inadequacy—and transforms it into something socially acceptable,
admirable, and applause-worthy.
On the surface, it looks like discipline. But underneath, it
is displacement. What is John sublimating? Anger. Shame. Betrayal. A whole
concoction of emotional pain that has built up over the years. And the world
rewards it.
That’s the dangerous part. No one questions the runner. No
one questions the man who is “doing well.” No one looks beneath the surface of
excellence to ask, “What are you avoiding?” John is respected and reliable. He
eventually becomes the voice counseling young couples at his church.
Now pause there for a moment.
A man who cannot be honest about his own marriage is
advising others on theirs. That is not hypocrisy. That is self-deception at its
peak, because in his mind, the narrative must hold.
“I am a good man.”
“I am a good husband.”
“I am respected.”
To protect that identity, he must suppress the truth. The
truth is that one fine evening in the recent past, after a long run and unable
to shake off his loneliness, he drives to a nightclub, decides to hire a call
girl, and, surprisingly, discovers that his erectile dysfunction was all in his
head.
But here is the problem. John has now tasted the forbidden fruit,
and between bouts of joy and confusion, he realizes he cannot go back. And so, he
begins. Quietly. Carefully. A string of relationships with younger women. It is
all hidden and controlled in his mind.
Meanwhile, his marriage hurts deeply, in ways he has not
been able to articulate. Or maybe he has refused to. His wife has been cheating
on him for years. Instead of confronting it fully, he has been avoiding her.
John and Angela have been married for 20 years. To the
outside world, they are the example. The model. The couple that “made it.”
Angela is a woman in her late 40s. Articulate. Composed. Respected. The kind of
woman people admire in church. She carries herself with dignity, speaks well,
and is present.
But inside? There is a quiet emptiness. Her marriage has not
brought her joy in years. Yet she has stayed. Not because it works, but because
it looks like it works. Why? To her, loneliness is worse than
dysfunction. Being seen as married, stable, and respected mattered more than
being alone. Loneliness would break her. Church gave her meaning, status, and
recognition. And so, she maintains the image. The respectable marriage. The
stable home. The dignified woman.
But beneath that? She, too, is living a double life.
In walks Robert. Angela met 33-year-old Robert when he was
broken, needy, and looking to settle. Unfortunately, he was rejected by his
fiancée, and Angela was there to pick him up. They served in the same church
department and spent a lot of time together. The result was an affair. Angela
knew exactly who Robert was. Emotionally unbalanced and needy. Robert met needs
she wasn’t receiving at home—attention, presence, and validation.
She was under the illusion that she controlled John, too,
that he needed her too much to go elsewhere, and that she was his safe place.
That was until one day she came home, and something felt off.
John was smiling and whistling, engaging with the children.
“Baba George, you look very happy today,” she queried. He nodded and said
nothing. And that’s when it hit her. Something had shifted.
In their marriage, sadness had become normal. Happiness was
suspicious. So, she watched him. Closely. And began to notice the changes. More
secrecy. More care in his appearance. Always clean. Always prepared. He would
say he was running. But the energy he brought back was different. Then she
found out. In church, there was a young woman, 26 years old. And in that
moment, everything collapsed.
Not just the marriage, but memory. She remembered her mother
being constantly physically abused by her unfaithful father. All of it rushed
back. She tried to hold it together for a week. Then she confronted John. And
John? He was tired of pretending. So, he spoke the truth, and everything
exploded. Shouting. Conflict. Exposure. An elder in their church and a close
neighbor intervene.
Two weeks later, they sit before the elders. And everything
comes out. Angela’s infidelity and John’s indiscretions. All of it. They are
prayed over and told to reconcile. They are told they are both at fault. And
then the head of the church speaks. The decision that seals everything.
They are to move to a new church branch. They will lead the
flock and be given leadership roles. They are reminded that they are not angels
and that there are no angels on earth; we are all sinners. They are told to
grow up and keep things under control.
And they agree. This becomes a carte blanche license for
them to continue their double life and to keep it from being exposed publicly.
They have too much to lose. So now they live vicariously, fully aware of their
indiscretions and consciously maintaining them. Not addressed, but ignored,
because that is easier than facing the truth.
So let me ask you. And I am hoping you sit with this.
What lies are you telling yourself today?
Is it about your health?
Your relationships?
Your money?
Your habits?
Where are you performing?
Where are you pretending?
Where are you avoiding?
One of the hardest things to face is misalignment. When you
are not living by the values you claim to hold. When your life says one thing
and your words say another. That tension you feel? That quiet discomfort? That
is not random. That is truth knocking.
Most people don’t open the door. They manage it. Suppress it. Distract
themselves. They do not resolve it. Over
time, the gap between who you are and who you say you are widens, and that gap
is where suffering lives.
So, what is the way out? It is not complicated, but it is
costly. Honesty. Not with others first, but with yourself. The kind where you
sit quietly and ask: “Where am I lying to myself?”
Here is something I have come to understand deeply: Your
life will never rise beyond your honesty with yourself.
Therefore, this week, don’t focus on doing more. Focus on
telling the truth. One truth. Then take one small step toward alignment. That
is where real change begins. Quietly. Honestly. Powerfully.
If this message stirred something in you, don’t let it fade.
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