The other day, I caught myself thinking a sentence I have thought countless times before: “I don’t have time for that right now.” It was not a significant moment, nothing dramatic, just one of those casual inner explanations that appear in everyday life and disappear again just as quickly. But this time, I stopped at it. Because deep down I knew that time was not really the problem. I simply did not want to deal with the matter. Or more precisely, I wanted to avoid the feeling connected with it. This small realisation was almost insignificant, and that was exactly what made it so interesting. I had not consciously lied to myself. I had simply told myself a version of the truth that sounded more comfortable and allowed me to feel better about it.
Since then, I have been paying more attention to these small shifts. They appear everywhere. I tell myself that something does not matter to me even though I am disappointed. I insist inwardly that another person’s opinion means nothing to me, while still thinking about it hours later. I explain to myself that I am simply being sensible when, in truth, I am afraid of change. These forms of self-deception are rarely large enough to be recognised immediately as lies. They are subtle, often even plausible. That is precisely what makes them so effective. I do not need to invent a completely false story. It is enough to emphasise one part of the truth and allow another to become so quiet that I no longer have to hear it.
For a long time, I thought self-deception was something that mainly affected other people or appeared only in particularly difficult situations in life. Today, I see it as something far more ordinary. It is present in small justifications, in habits and in the explanations I give myself for my own behaviour. If I keep doing something even though it is not good for me, I can easily find reasons for it. If I remain in a situation that has long since made me unhappy, I can explain to myself why there is no other option at the moment. If I do not want to let someone go, I can mistake my hope for loyalty. And if I do not dare to do something, caution can sound far more comfortable than fear. That does not mean every explanation is false. It simply means that we can be remarkably skilled at choosing the explanation that confronts us least with ourselves.
There is something deeply human in this for me. We do not necessarily lie to ourselves because we want to be dishonest. Often, we do it because honesty would have consequences. If I truly admit that I am unhappy, the question may arise of what I want to change. If I acknowledge that I am hurt, I may have to allow myself to be vulnerable. If I recognise that a decision arose from fear, I can no longer hide quite so easily behind reason. A small self-deception creates a moment of relief. It pushes the uncomfortable truth a little further away and allows me to preserve my familiar image of myself. This works surprisingly well for as long as I do not look too closely.
I find it particularly interesting how closely self-deception is linked to our self-image. We like to see ourselves as consistent, honest, free, rational or independent. When our behaviour does not fit that image, tension arises. And we do not always change our behaviour. Often, we first change the story we tell about it. I know this from myself. Afterwards, I can give an action a meaning that fits better with the person I believe myself to be. In this way, an inner logic develops in which almost everything can be explained. That does not mean we are constantly inventing stories consciously. Much of it happens so quickly and naturally that we barely notice the process. An explanation becomes a habit, a habit becomes a belief, and eventually our own interpretation begins to feel like the only possible truth.
I have learnt that being honest with myself is not always pleasant. It does not automatically feel liberating or clear. There are moments when it seems to take something away from me instead: an excuse, a comfortable role or a familiar explanation. I do not necessarily see myself more favourably then, only more honestly. That may mean recognising that I feel envy even though I think of myself as generous. That I seek recognition even though I like to appear independent. That I am holding on to something that has long since ended. I do not always like such realisations. But increasingly, I experience them as more honest than trying to think myself constantly into an appealing image of who I am.
Much of what I describe in I – Your Best Liar grew out of exactly this exploration. I was less interested in the obvious lie than in that subtle inner voice that gives us daily stories with which we explain our behaviour. It does not say, “I am deceiving you.” It says, “This is simply the sensible thing to do.” It says, “There is nothing you can change right now.” Or, “It does not really matter that much to you anyway.” That is precisely why it is so convincing. At some point, it became clear to me that self-manipulation is not found only in major life decisions. It often begins in the small sentences we tell ourselves so frequently that we have forgotten to question them at all.
Over time, my way of looking at this has changed. I no longer try to expose every small self-deception immediately or judge myself for it. That would only create another form of control. What interests me more is the moment when an explanation suddenly no longer sounds quite right. That tiny crack in my own story. Often, something can already be felt there before I can name it clearly. A slight discomfort, a resistance, an inner knowing that does not quite match what I am telling myself. For me, such moments are valuable because they reveal that something else still exists beneath our familiar stories.
Today, when I notice small excuses, I do not immediately think that I am being dishonest with myself. I ask myself instead what this explanation might be protecting me from. I do not always find an answer. And not every answer changes something immediately. But sometimes that brief moment is enough, the moment when the familiar story no longer holds completely. Then a seemingly harmless sentence suddenly becomes a door. Behind it, there is no perfect truth about myself waiting to be discovered, only something real that previously had no room to be seen.