Every day you wake up
and whisper a lie
so quiet,
you don’t even notice it anymore.
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“This is just who I am.”
“No one would understand.”
“It’s too late.”
That lie?
It’s not words.
It’s a habit.
A rhythm.
A mask that grew skin.
You’ve told it so many times,
you started believing it.
Now it speaks for you.
Decides for you.
Lives for you.
And the worst part?
You know it’s a lie.
You feel it in your gut.
In the hesitation.
In the scroll.
In the fake laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes.
But it’s easier than the truth.
Easier than risking change.
Easier than facing what it would actually mean
to go all-in
on yourself.
So you keep lying.
And calling it normal.
Calling it safe.
Calling it life.
But it’s not life.
It’s limbo.
It’s identity rot in real time.
The truth is louder.
But you’ve been tuning it out.
Not because it’s wrong—
Because it’s right.
And if it’s right,
then you have to move.
And movement risks the one thing you’ve built your whole safety around:
Not becoming who you could’ve been.
The lie doesn’t just cost you time.
It costs you you.
