Truth, Lies, and the Space Between

“The best stories are true. But not all truths need to become stories.”

Unknown

Last week, you showed me a piece of art you'd made, Lyla. I told you it was incredible.

It was good. I was proud of you. I wanted you to feel all the warmth I felt looking at it. I wanted to encourage you to make more, to keep showing me your creations, to know that I see what you're building.

But was it incredible? Or was I embellishing because I wanted the moment to land the way I felt it?

I've been thinking about this a lot lately. About the lies I tell. The small ones, the ones that slip out before I even realize I'm doing it. The ones that make stories a little bigger, pain a little sharper, moments a little more dramatic.

I lie sometimes. Not always consciously. Not always maliciously. But I do it.

Sometimes it's obvious: one step past sarcasm, so blatant that I assume no one could possibly mistake my actual words for truth. Sometimes it's so subtle even I barely notice. And sometimes, it's wrapped in something true, something I genuinely feel, but I've turned up the volume to make sure it's heard.

I've been thinking about how emotional truth and factual truth aren't always the same thing. That you can feel something deeply real even if the details aren't perfectly accurate. But where's the line? When does heightening truth become creating falsehood?

I think I've figured out a framework. It's not perfect, but it's what I've learned: If embellishment triggers a NEW emotion (one that the truth wouldn't have created), then it's manipulation. But if it HEIGHTENS an emotion that the truth already contains? That might just be storytelling.

When I told you your art was incredible, I was heightening my genuine pride. I wasn't creating a false emotion. But I wonder: am I teaching you that "good" isn't enough? That truth needs to be amplified to matter?

Years ago, I learned something at work. Someone had created a situation where they personally benefited in a way that was ethically questionable. It came to light after they'd left the company, but the information could have damaged people who had nothing to do with it, people who were trying to build something better.

About two years later, someone asked if I knew about it. I said I didn't.

It was a stupid lie. Of course I knew. But I didn't want that information weaponized against people who didn't deserve it.

I don't regret protecting those people. But I don't think lying was the right call either. Both of those things live in my head at the same time.

Because here's the thing about truth: sometimes it does damage. Like if someone asks you to compete against them as hard as you can because they want to beat you fair and square, but you know if they lose after trying their absolute hardest, it will crush them. They'll be so demotivated and deflated that they give up before they can actually beat you fair and square. And you want to see them get there.

That's a dangerous truth. But it's still a lie to hold back.

Another time, I told someone about that ethically questionable situation. I told them the truth, the full truth. And they just said, "That's how the world works."

They dismissed it. My truth didn't register as important to them.

For a moment, I wondered: should I have made the number bigger? If I'd doubled the amount, tripled it, would they have cared about the morality then? Would exaggerating have been justified if it made them see what was wrong?

But that's exactly the trap. That would have been creating a new understanding, not heightening the truth. I would have been manipulating them into caring about something different than what actually happened. That's where I would have crossed the line. That's where embellishment becomes deception.

People will try to manipulate you with "emotional truths" that are built on lies, Lyla. They'll tell you stories that feel real, that make you feel what they want you to feel, but the foundation is false.

Your truth matters. Even if someone dismisses it. Your experience is real. Your feelings are valid.

But factual reality still matters too. If someone tells you something happened that didn't happen, that's not just a different truth. That's living in a false world. And we correct people living in false worlds.

So when you're tempted to embellish, to make a story bigger so someone will really get it, ask yourself: Am I heightening a truth that's already there? Or am I creating a new understanding that isn't real?

I still struggle with this. I catch myself saying things that aren't quite true, and I try to clarify afterward, to make sure people know my intentions were good even if my execution was messy.

When I told you your art was incredible, I meant it. Not because every technical element was perfect, but because watching you create something, watching you decide what mattered to you and bring it into the world, that IS incredible to me.

Maybe the trick isn't avoiding embellishment entirely. Maybe it's making sure that when we amplify something, we're amplifying what's genuinely there.

The line matters. Truth matters. Even when it's complicated. Even when it's not enough on its own.

Especially then.

Naming the Darkness

“When you can’t look on the bright side, I will sit with you in the dark.”

Unknown

At the end of 2023, I thought about killing myself. The thoughts lasted about a month.

If you're reading this and worried about me, I'm okay now. I'm far past that month. I'm writing this because the silence around this topic is more dangerous than the discomfort of naming it. I wrestled with whether to write this at all. Not because I feel too vulnerable, but because this subject is somehow taboo. Everyone wants people to be supported, but we're afraid to just say it. Say the thing that is real. We're afraid people will think we're weak, or worry about us when we've already recovered. Because. Because. Because.

But that tension, that fear of naming it, is exactly what makes you not want to get support when you're going through it.

So I'm saying it. I thought about ending my life. And I want you to know, Lyla, that if you ever get to that place, you can say it too. To me. To your mom. To someone. You can name the darkness.

It was a perfect storm. Work stress at a breaking point with client losses, internal politics, lack of progress, and feeling completely alone in carrying everyone else's weight. I'd just let someone go at work, a decision that gutted me, and then they sued me personally for racial discrimination. The irony was cruel. I'd fought for them, tried to keep them, advocated for diversity on our DEI council. And this person knew the agency's history and it felt like extortion. Someone I thought was a friend was trying to destroy the company, and me personally, with lies for personal gain.

My therapist, who I'd finally started opening up to after never having been to therapy in my life, quit being my therapist when her child was born. Completely understandable. And also exactly what I'd feared: that I'd let myself be vulnerable, start to rely on someone to help me work through things, and they'd just leave.

At home, your mom was dealing with her own anxiety. I couldn't fully share what I was going through because talking to her about my despair meant I'd then need to support her anxiety about my despair. I was drowning, but I couldn't ask her to pull me up because she was trying to keep her own head above water.

I felt alone in carrying responsibilities that everyone around me either couldn't or shouldn't be doing. Things I was doing for them. So I felt alone in that.

Suddenly, everything I'd tried to build felt like it was crumbling, and I was failing on every front. Worse, it felt like people wanted me to fail. Maybe that was paranoia, maybe not, but it was real to me.

So I did what you're supposed to do. I reached out.

My brother, who I rarely have deep conversations with, was struggling too. When I tried to open up, his response was, "Your job is to take care of me." Not the other way around. It hurt, but I understood. He needed support, and I wasn't giving it.

Next, my sister. She's my go-to for real talk. But when I shared what my brother said, she said, "I don't feel any obligation to take care of you. That's not how I think." I didn't open up to her after that.

Finally, my closest friend. I asked if he'd ever struggled, how he got through it. "I just deal with it," he said. Old school, sure, but honest. Later, when I hinted at how bad things were, his check-in was a joke: "Have you killed yourself yet?" I said, "Not yet." That was it.

I had my lifevests—my siblings, my closest friend. But I couldn't inflate my vest because they didn't have anything to give in that moment.

Looking back now, I don't think any of them knew how bad of a place I was in. When you're in darkness, you think you're being clear, but you're probably not. You think you're screaming for help, but it comes out as a whisper. And all of them were dealing with their own struggles. It wasn't that they didn't want to help or wouldn't give me what I needed. They just didn't have it to give. They were drowning too.

But in that moment, it felt like rejection. And it made everything so much worse.

What pulled me through wasn't one thing. It was a combination of defiance and not wanting someone else to "win" or control my life. It was spite, honestly. Still a negative emotion, but it moved me away from despair. I eventually got to the holidays, where I always feel a bit more loved. I got past the withdrawal of not having a therapist and reset how I use outlets to work through emotions. I started talking to Rachel again, letting her back in even though it was complicated.

Time passed. The lawsuit was resolved. I had written and verbal evidence of how I'd supported this person, character witnesses showing how baseless the claims were. But it wasn't really about winning the case. It was about surviving the betrayal.

Here's what I wish I'd known when I was in it: nothing that felt so incredibly heavy at that time really mattered that much. I don't say that to diminish it, because at that time it weighed so much on me. But I should have thought about quitting my job far before suicide. Or taking a couple of weeks off. I should have found another therapist before that consideration, despite my fear of being deprioritized again. I should have considered so many other things.

But your mind goes dark when you lose hope. It can't see the options that are right in front of you.

The things that felt like they required my life actually just required me to let go of other things. My job. My pride. My need to carry everyone else's weight. Those were the things that needed to end, not me.

I heard someone say once that life both happens to you, but also flows through you. When you're in that dark place, life is only happening TO you. It's crushing you. Overwhelming you. All-consuming. What you need is someone to help you get to the second part, where life flows through you again. Where you can breathe.

If you ever find yourself in that place, Lyla, here's what I want you to know:

Call me. Text me. Write me. Just let me be there. I would get in my car, go to the airport, do whatever I needed to do to simply be there with you and hold you. I wouldn't let you feel alone. I would just hold you.

It won't be a burden on me. It will be an honor that you trust me to help you.

I'm not saying I'm skilled or trained to navigate every situation. Every situation is different, so I almost certainly won't know exactly what you're going through. But I have experience navigating darkness now. And it won't be too much for me. It will be a relief that you're seeking support.

If you reach out to someone and they can't help you, that's not rejection. They might be drowning too. They might not have the skillset or capacity to navigate that conversation. Keep reaching. Try someone else. Try me. Try your mom. Keep reaching until someone catches you.

Let go of everything else if you need to. Your job, your responsibilities, your pride, whatever is weighing you down. I'll support you in that. But never let go of yourself.

There are always more options than your dark mind can see in that moment.

You are not alone. Even when it feels like you are.

And you can always, always name the darkness. Because the silence is more dangerous than the fear of saying it out loud.

I love you. And I'm here.

Navigating change

“Nothing changes if nothing changes”

Change is hard. Change is personal. But change is necessary for progress.

In the second year of my career, I was frustrated with my job. I worked at a multicultural agency for one of the world’s largest advertisers, alongside some of the brightest minds in the city, but I felt stuck. I wanted to grow faster than the opportunities allowed, so I started looking elsewhere. I interviewed at another agency in Chicago and, in the process, got feedback that cut deep: “People working in multicultural advertising aren’t as capable as those in the general market.”

I.was.livid.

I went to the top advertising school in the country for media, worked with the biggest clients, had strong reviews, and still, I was being judged for the audience I served, not the work that I did. I disagreed vehemently with their feedback, but it scared me. Despite knowing they were wrong, this was the voice of one of the top agencies in the city. Would this perception stunt my entire career?

I vented to my boss about it, and she asked me a pivotal question: Do you want to prove the doubters wrong by staying and making an impact, or switch and leave the fight behind?

At the time, I wasn’t ready to fight the system, so I switched. I think about this decision often, and it has stayed with me since.

Years later, when I was in a position of influence, there was a crisis at an agency that meant a lot to me, that had people I cared about, and I had a chance to be part of systemic change, I ran toward the fight. This time, the fight was bigger, and I loved it. A fight to create a place free of the toxic realities I’d encountered earlier in my career. A place that valued its people and helped them grow to be fearless. A place that prioritized people over profits. A place that discouraged unhealthy competition. A place of good, kindhearted people.

And then we moved mountains. Boulder by boulder, we laid the foundation for a healthy culture that could last. The progress we made is the proudest achievement of my career.

But as we made real progress, something shifted. The desire for change started to fade. As if the initial change was enough. For me, there was still so much more to do, but without a consensus to keep changing, progress slowed drastically.

That’s when I learned something important: You can’t force change. People change themselves.

You can change an environment or situation, but you can’t change someone’s mind or heart. You can only share your perspective, offer your understanding, and hope they’re open to it. Real, sustainable change happens when someone chooses it for themselves. No one can choose your change, and you can’t choose someone else’s.

And learning that changed me. It took me so long to realize it wasn’t a fight at all. I could put down my sword. I could take off my armor. And I could be happy for them that the world they wanted to create is the one they achieved. There is so much beauty in that. And there was a clear realization that there was still a path for me to continue to walk, so I might as well continue the journey.

So yes, be the change you want to see. But once you get beyond yourself, seek out those who want to create that change, too. Because if there is no openness or desire for the change you want, that change is simply not possible.

If you realize that where you are isn’t ready for, or even wanting, the change you envision, that’s okay. Let them live their vision. The right place for your vision is out there. Keep moving toward it.