Hey everyone, welcome back to Grace Over Guilt. I'm Dan Kaufman. On Mondays, I tell you my story. On Wednesdays, we dig into the lessons, the things I've learned that I think might help you, too.

Today, I want to talk about lies. Not the kind we tell other people, although we'll get to that. I want to talk about the lies we tell ourselves. The stories we create to make our reality more bearable. The narratives we cling to because the truth feels too heavy to carry.

If you listened to or read Monday's episode, you heard me talk about how I spent years believing everything would be fine. My attorney said it would be fine. So I told myself it would be fine. And I told my wife it would be fine. And that lie, that comfortable, protective lie, ended up causing more damage than the truth ever could have.

THE ANATOMY OF SELF-DECEPTION

Here's what I've learned about lying to ourselves: it almost never feels like lying. It feels like hope. It feels like optimism. It feels like protecting the people we love from unnecessary worry.

When my attorney told me I wouldn't serve any jail time, and my PSI (pre-sentencing investigation report) confirmed it, I latched onto that. Not because I'm gullible, but because I needed it to be true. The alternative that I might actually go to jail, that my life might fundamentally change, was too terrifying to sit with.

So I told myself a story. The story went like this: "I didn't do anything wrong. The truth will come out. The system will work. My attorney knows what he's doing. Everything will be fine."

And every time doubt crept in, every time anxiety whispered that maybe things weren't going to be okay, I doubled down on the story. I pushed the doubt away. I told myself I was just being negative. I told myself to trust the process.

That's how self-deception works. It doesn't feel like lying. It feels like surviving.

WHY WE DO IT

I think we lie to ourselves for three main reasons.

First, we lie to ourselves because the truth is painful. Sitting with uncertainty, admitting we don't have control, acknowledging that bad things might happen to us, that's hard. Our brains are wired to avoid pain. And sometimes, a comfortable lie is less painful than an uncomfortable truth.

Second, we lie to ourselves to protect our identity. I was the guy who had his life together. Admitting that I was in serious legal trouble, that my marriage might be at risk, that everything I'd built could crumble, that threatened who I thought I was. So instead of confronting that threat, I minimized it. I told myself it wasn't that serious.

Third, and this is the one that still haunts me, we lie to ourselves because we think it protects the people we love. I didn't tell my wife the full truth because I thought I was shielding her. I thought I was being a good husband by not burdening her with my fear. But what I was really doing was making a decision for her. I was taking away her ability to prepare, to process, to make informed choices about her own life.

THE COST OF COMFORTABLE LIES

Here's what I wish I had understood back then: comfortable lies have compound interest. The longer you hold onto them, the more they cost you.

When I finally did go to jail, when the thing my attorney said wouldn't happen actually happened, my wife wasn't just dealing with me being incarcerated. She was dealing with the betrayal of having been kept in the dark. She was processing not just the situation, but all the months and years where I had painted a rosier picture than reality.

Thirteen days after I went to jail, she filed for divorce. And while I can't say for certain that things would have been different if I'd been more honest earlier, I know that my half-truths didn't help. They built a wall between us when we should have been building a bridge.

The lies we tell ourselves don't just affect us. They ripple outward. They shape how we treat the people around us. And eventually, they collapse usually at the moment when we most need the truth to hold us up.

So what do we do with this? How do we stop lying to ourselves?

First, get honest about what you're afraid of. The lies we tell ourselves are almost always covering up a fear. For me, it was fear of losing my family, my freedom, my identity. Once I named those fears, once I said them out loud, they lost some of their power over me.

Second, find someone you can be completely honest with. This might be a therapist, a sponsor, a pastor, a friend, someone who will listen without judgment and who won't let you get away with your comfortable narratives. For a long time, I didn't have this. I regret that.

Third, practice sitting with uncertainty. This is hard. Our brains hate not knowing how things will turn out. But the truth is, we never really know. The illusion of certainty is just another lie we tell ourselves. Learning to say "I don't know how this will turn out, and that's scary, but I can handle it," that's a superpower.

Fourth, and this is crucial, separate what you can control from what you can't. I couldn't control the legal system. I couldn't control what the judge would decide. But I could control how honest I was with myself and the people I loved. I could choose whether to prepare for different outcomes or hope for the best.

The truth is, I still catch myself doing this. I still catch myself spinning stories that make reality easier to digest. The difference now is that I notice it. And when I notice it, I try to ask myself: "What am I afraid of here? What truth am I avoiding?"

The lies we tell ourselves feel like protection, but they're really prison cells we build with our own hands. The only way out is honesty—brutal, uncomfortable, terrifying honesty. With ourselves first. And then with the people who matter to us.

If you're holding onto a comfortable lie right now, I'm not here to judge you. I've been there. I get it. But I am here to tell you that the truth, even when it's hard, is the foundation that can actually hold you up. Lies crumble. Truth endures.

Grace over guilt.

I'll see you on Friday.