The Lie We Don’t Talk About
Let's talk about the truth of lies
When I was 12, I was obsessed with Diddl—that goofy little mouse. I had the mugs, plates, stationery—everything.
In school, I was not popular. I was shy, seen as the sensitive nerd, hanging out more with trees and Diddl than with classmates. So when the cool couple at French school in Copenhagen—suddenly wanted to talk to me, I listened.
“Nora, there’s this amazing store by your house… it’s ALL Diddl stuff.”
I lit up. My dream come true! They swore it was real. So we rode the bus across Frederiksberg, my heart pounding.
The storefront looked strange, but they egged me on. I pushed the door open.
Not a Diddl store
A sex shop.
I was mortified. Shame burned through me. I felt so gullible.
That moment stuck with me—so much that I later wrote my master’s thesis on lying, a paper that was eventually published here.
Lying is universal and ancient. It follows us from birth to death.
The kind we notice most is falsifying (like being promised a Diddl store).
But the kind we practice daily is not falsifying - it's concealing.
Withholding information—because we don’t want to hurt someone, or we don’t want to lose something/someone.
But when we conceal, we quietly deprive others of choice.
Ouch, right N?
So why do we do it?
The need to belong is stronger than the need to be hones
As n’betweeners, that pull to belong runs so deep we end up lying more than we’d like to admit. Not because we’re bad—but because belonging feels like survival.
So instead of judging yourself, get curious:
What need is my lie trying to protect?
What doesn’t feel safe to share?
The truth of lies is that sometimes our lies aren’t deceptions—they’re signposts pointing to the places inside us still longing for safety and connection.
And the irony? Today, as a therapist, my profession is literally keeping lies confidential. Which is why I know this:
Bring gentleness to those places. Let them know you’re listening
If this resonates, tell me. I’d love to hear from you.
Hug hug,