
I learned to lie the way some kids learn to ride a bike—gradually, with plenty of scrapes and falls along the way, but once I got the hang of it, I never forgot how. It started as a survival mechanism. A way to navigate a world that often felt unpredictable, where the truth didn’t always work in my favor.
My childhood was filled with landmines. Say the wrong thing, get punished. Show weakness, get ignored. Tell the truth about something you did wrong, and you learned very quickly that honesty wasn’t always the best policy—it was the fastest route to consequences. But a lie? A lie could smooth things over. A lie could buy time. A lie could protect me.








