The Lies I Told to Survive

The Lies I Told to Survive

I am a liar.

But my lies were never born of malice —

they were born of fire.

When the world I built turned to smoke,

when the man I called husband became a ghost of everything I feared,

shame descended like nightfall.

I could not stay.

So I ran — carrying only the echo of what I used to be.

A house emptied, a name hollowed.

I left pieces of myself scattered behind me like feathers torn loose in flight.

I told myself I was fine.

I told others I was healing.

But the truth?

I was splitting — into the girl who smiled and the woman who disappeared.

I lived in fragments,

drifting between hunger and release,

between the body I punished and the silence I worshiped.

Dissociation became a sanctuary where I didn’t have to feel the weight of my own existence.

Every lie was a lullaby to the frightened creature inside me.

“I’m okay.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“I don’t need help.”

They were spells — not to deceive, but to survive.

A way to stay breathing in a world that no longer felt safe.

And still, somewhere within the wreckage,

the crow watched.

Silent.

Patient.

Waiting for the truth to rise from the ash.

Because it always does.

Even lies burn out eventually — and what remains is the ember of what’s real.

When I began to speak again,

it wasn’t confession — it was resurrection.

Each truth was a spark:

a whispered remembering of the girl who had been silenced by shame.

I saw her — trembling, haunted, still clutching the remnants of her story —

and I did not turn away.

I forgave her.

She lied because she loved herself enough to survive the unbearable.

She lied because the truth was too heavy to hold alone.

Now, I tell her she can rest.

That she doesn’t have to run.

That the flame she feared would consume her

was always meant to forge her instead.

I am a liar.

I was a liar.

But the truth is this:

every lie I told was a bridge across darkness —

and I made it to the other side.

🖤 Reflection for Readers

What lies have you told that once kept you safe? Can you honor the part of you that lied as a survivor, not a sinner? What truth is flickering beneath your own ashes, waiting to be spoken?