The Lies We Tell Ourselves

Why do we lie to ourselves?

Because sometimes life is hard.

Too hard. Too sharp. Too painful. Too sad. Too shocking. Too ugly. Too heavy. Too lonely. Too much.

At times, life can feel almost impossible to face.

And yet, many of us know exactly what it feels like to look away.

In what ways has life made you feel unable to face it?

As Bessel van der Kolk writes, “Unlike other forms of psychological disorders, the core issue in trauma is reality.”

I am not suggesting that we must face everything all at once, every moment of every day. That would overwhelm the nervous system and likely leave us drowning in chaos, anxiety, depression, or despair.

As human beings, we adapt. We have developed ways of surviving tremendous chaos—abuse, war, violence, heartbreak, and loss. In moments of trauma, the mind and body often do something remarkable: they set things aside. They store them away for later, so we can survive what is happening in the moment and protect ourselves or those we love.

That adaptation is not weakness. It is survival.

But what happens when the danger has passed and we are finally safe?

What then?

The truth is, most of us continue avoiding our pain like the plague. Something about it felt toxic, unbearable, or too consuming to touch. So we push it away—further and further from conscious view. But how long can we keep running from our own shadow?

A day? A year? A decade? A lifetime?

The shadow always lingers. Quietly, persistently, just behind us. Hovering beyond the illusion we create to keep ourselves functional. Waiting at the edges of our lives, standing between who we have become and who we truly are.

For years after my combat deployment, I avoided my own experience. At first, I did what many soldiers do: I kept working.

Then I became a workaholic.

I worked until I had isolated myself from my family. I worked until my marriage dissolved. I worked until friendships faded. I worked until I broke my own body. 

Eventually, my body revolted against the disrespect I had shown myself. Chronic pain became its way of demanding my attention. Something was wrong—deeply wrong.

And like many people who are forced to face the limits of their own body, I collapsed into anguish.

I drowned in self-pity. Waves of anger, depression, resentment, and grief tore through me. Every surge of stress seemed to inflame my body even more. Chronic pain and PTSD fed one another. The rage had no outlet. The tears brought no relief. The more defeated I felt, the more trapped I became. By that point, I was nearing suicidal.

Pain can push a person into such deep desperation that even death begins to look like relief. 

Bessel van der Kolk writes, “The single most important issue for traumatized people is to find a sense of safety in their own bodies.”

That is the turning point.

I chose to heal.

And so can you.

When a shadow trait emerges—trauma, PTSD, grief, shame, rage—we are faced with a choice: accept it, or reject it. Rejection often disguises itself as coping. It may look like addiction, perfectionism, control, overworking, numbing, or denial. In my case, it was workaholism.

This is the place where people can remain stuck for years, hurting themselves and often those around them. Denial of trauma is, in many ways, denial of self.

To know yourself fully means knowing the totality of your soul—its beauty, its wounds, its brilliance, and its brokenness. Anything less is a rejection of your wholeness.

The hero’s journey is not just myth. It is the path of healing. It is the willingness to enter the unknown, meet the challenge, endure the symbolic death, and return transformed.

Acceptance begins the moment we decide to acknowledge the fractured parts of ourselves and bring them into the light. The shadow that follows us, pleading to be seen, is often the remnant of the self that split away in the moment of trauma. When the experience became too much to bear, we stored it away—like something set aside for later—until we were safe and strong enough to face it. 

And still, it calls to us.

It reaches through everyday moments, scraping against the wound beneath the surface. The man in the next car with road rage. The overly critical mother-in-law. The entitled stranger who cuts in line. These moments do not happen because we deserve mistreatment. But they do reveal something. They expose the places within us that are still tender, still inflamed, still asking for our attention. 

Healing asks us to look there.

To stop outrunning the pain.
To stop burying it in work, substances, distractions, or other people.
To stop projecting it outward and letting it destroy our relationships.
To stop pretending it is not there.

The first step in recovery is awareness.

We must look at our pain honestly—straight into its eyes.

And then we must ask for help.

I could not do this alone. Most people cannot. If you do not have support from family or friends, there are still resources available. There are people who understand. There are paths forward. There is help. 

And there is forgiveness.

Not because others always deserve it, but because you deserve peace.

One of the most dangerous beliefs we can carry is the idea that we are finished healing. We are never done. We are never beyond growth. We are never beyond the call to become more honest, more integrated, more awake. Even years later, healing continues to ask something of us. It asks us to remain humble. To remain willing. To remain open. 

Share your story. Connect with others. By helping others carry their pain, we also strengthen our own healing and contribute to the healing of the collective.

If this speaks to something in you, I encourage you to read The Body Keeps the Score by psychiatrist, educator, and author Bessel van der Kolk. It is one of the most powerful works ever written on trauma, the body, and the long road back to self.