The hidden cost of maintaining a reality that is no longer true

What happens to us when the truth, the unvarnished truth, becomes socially, professionally, relationally, or psychologically too expensive to tell?

Justin was out on the golf course with some friends as one of his buddies shared the latest and greatest achievement his wife had just made. He was genuinely happy for his friend, but it also left a certain unease. His own wife had seemed increasingly distant of late and he couldn’t quite figure it out. Even now, he had just received a text asking when he would be home. He felt a heaviness in his gut, and his gut was almost never wrong. He decided to forego drinks afterward and skip the 19th hole.

When he got home, he noticed Rachel was absent from the house, pacing on the back deck. Before he could even greet her, she began to speak.

“I just met with the hospital administrator and it’s official. They are putting me on administrative leave.”

Her voice broke, hands flew to her face. He knew he should rush to her, but he was stunned. Rachel had worked at the hospital as the Chief Medical Officer for several years now. He knew there had been some political shenanigans, but he had no idea they were at that point.

Hours later, as they entertained their neighbors, Justin found himself bragging about Rachel and her role, acting as if nothing had happened. Right on cue she joined him, bantering…joking, pretending. He felt slightly uncomfortable at first, but they certainly didn’t need neighborhood gossip, or for the kids to find out.

Neither Justin nor Rachel were liars. They were scared, in uncharted territory and unsure what to do. From their perspective, the distortions in their conversation that night were acts of protection. They were protecting Rachel’s reputation, their children, and perhaps the identity they had built their lives around.

Were they lying? Technically, perhaps. But that definition misses almost everything important about why they were doing it.

It happens all the time. Someone posts about “an exciting season of growth” during their worst sales month in five years. A company leader walks into a leadership meeting after being formally reprimanded and projects absolute confidence. A woman tells her friends that her marriage is “going through a little rough patch” while concealing the fact that she privately discovered the family finances have been devastated by her husband’s gambling. An entrepreneur says they’re “taking some time to reassess” when their business is collapsing. An influencer posts a photograph from vacation while barely speaking to the person standing beside them.

And importantly, not all of this is dishonesty. There are very good reasons we conceal.

Privacy is legitimate. Discretion is often the wisest path. Emotional containment is sometimes necessary in the interest of stability and regulation. A CEO doesn’t necessarily owe employees every fear running through her head, and would be foolish to share them all at a staff meeting. A physician can’t fall apart with every patient because they are going through a divorce or have a concerning symptom, even if they’ve been a patient for years. Someone who has just received devastating news may genuinely need time to take it in and adjust before speaking about it.

And sometimes “fake it till you make it” actually works. Behavior absolutely can precede confidence, and sometimes a positive attitude can indeed move mountains. We can function while we are frightened, livid, feeling off, or doubtful. We can borrow stability today from our stores of past experience while dealing with a crisis we never anticipated…while our internal world catches up.

The problem isn’t that we don’t disclose everything.

The problem begins when protecting the truth turns into distorting the truth, and then into maintaining a lie in order to create an alternate reality.

Sociologist Erving Goffman’s work on impression management explored how we consciously and unconsciously shape the versions of ourselves we present to others. But I wonder if we might think about that presentation as existing along a continuum: privacy, discretion, containment, impression management, posturing, distortion and, finally, deception.

A continuum we can slide along without even realizing we have moved…dramatically.

Once I have created a version of myself that must be maintained, my nervous system now has two jobs:

1. Deal with what is actually happening.
2. Make sure nobody discovers what is actually happening.

That second job can become enormous over time.

Now I’m not only maintaining and regulating for myself, but I’m also monitoring other people’s reactions. Suddenly, I am editing what I say in the present to match what I’ve said before. It gets harder as I try to remember what I’ve told whom and why. In comparing myself to my competitors, I may use distortion and hyperbole to maintain my position. I may interpret questions as threatening exposure and answer in less-than-transparent ways. I may try to project confidence while feeling afraid and alone, or avoid people who know too much. I may even convince myself that the version I’m presenting is true, fueling further avoidance and denial.

The crisis has not disappeared. We’ve simply added the labor of concealment to it.

In this scenario, the protective strategy itself becomes another source of threat. Life lived from this space becomes increasingly stressful, rarely joyful and relentlessly demanding on the nervous system.

And there are more concerns here.

If everyone believes everyone else is doing better than they are, the collective standard becomes a work of fiction. Leaders pretend they’re certain, entrepreneurs pretend they’re succeeding, couples pretend they’re happy, physicians pretend they’re coping, parents pretend they’re managing, organizations pretend initiatives are working.

And it is all because everyone is calibrating themselves against everyone else’s curated reality.

Fiction becomes the benchmark, distortion becomes acceptable and reality becomes isolated from facts.

We don’t just pay a personal price for pretending. Eventually, we create cultures in which everyone is comparing their private reality to everyone else’s public performance.

You don’t have to look very far. Listen to the language of earnings calls, leadership meetings, holiday letters, dinner parties, professional bios and social media feeds. We have become remarkably good at presenting versions of reality that are technically defensible and emotionally incomplete.

And there are times and places where revealing difficulty really can cost something. I think of the stock market and your market position, funding for that expansion or new venture. Too much reality can cost referrals, a promotion, patient confidence, client confidence. It can tarnish a reputation or diminish your authority.

So telling people, “Just be authentic!” is ridiculously simplistic.

We live in a complex world with complex issues. But how do we remain truthful, maintain our integrity and ethics without becoming indiscriminately transparent?

The acronym TMI exists for a reason. I don’t need to know about your most recent visit to the proctologist or the intimate details of your adult child’s dating life.

You don’t owe me your complete, honest, 100% truth in that way.

But the one place you do owe 100% honesty, day in and day out, 365 days a year, is with yourself.

The danger isn’t just that I begin lying to you. It’s that the version I need you to believe eventually requires me to stop looking honestly at myself.

Justin and Rachel might reasonably decide, “We’re telling nobody until we understand what happened.”

That’s privacy.

But if six months later Rachel is still telling everyone she’s CMO, Justin is repeating it, they’re spending money to maintain appearances, Rachel won’t talk about what happened, and any question about work produces anger or defensiveness, that’s something entirely different.

Same silence. Entirely different purpose.

When the external performance begins reorganizing the internal reality, that’s the point at which protection becomes imprisonment.

And getting free doesn’t necessarily mean telling everyone. It means there must be somewhere the truth is allowed to remain the truth.

You don’t owe everyone your complete, unvarnished truth. But you cannot afford to become a stranger to it yourself.

There has to be somewhere…a relationship, a conversation, a journal, a spiritual practice, perhaps simply the privacy of your own mind, where the performance stops. Somewhere you don’t have to manage the optics, protect the position, remember the story, reassure the audience or maintain the identity.

There needs to be a place where the worst month really can be the worst month. Where it is okay for your marriage to be in trouble. Your business can be failing. You can be scared. You can have absolutely no idea what comes next.

Because perhaps the greatest danger isn’t that other people will discover the truth. It’s building a life in which you can no longer afford to acknowledge it yourself.