Yesterday, I picked up my son from school. When we got home and I unpacked his school bag, I noticed a toy inside that didn't belong to him—it belonged to the school.
When I asked him about it, he said he received it for Christmas. After probing a bit more, he mentioned that his teacher gave it to him as a present. However, when I asked if his teacher would confirm that, he admitted that he liked the toy, secretly hid it in his bag, and took it home.
Since my son is only four years old, he's not very good at lying. His moral development hasn't fully kicked in yet. But I recognize that by the time he grows up, he will likely become much better at it. Research shows that, as adults, we tend to lie several times a day—six times, to be precise.
As adults, we lie during presentations and job interviews. We lie about purchases we've made, to friends, and even to strangers. We often lie about how we feel. The primary reason for this? To avoid confrontation.
So, does the truth always set us free? If we choose to lie occasionally to get along or to escape an awkward situation, are we betraying our authentic selves?
Here’s my perspective.
Perhaps this is my Dutch directness speaking, but I believe that the truth almost always sets us free. The key is to check our intentions first.
Do we want to tell the truth because we feel frustrated by the guilt building up inside us? If so, sharing the truth can feel incredibly relieving; it's like releasing emotional pressure.
However, if we’re merely unloading our feelings onto others without consideration, we risk damaging our relationships.
Do we wish to tell the truth in order to connect more deeply with a colleague, client, partner, friend, or boss? In that case, even the worst truth is better than the best lie.
At InterACT, we provide workshop participants with opportunities to practice open and honest conversations with professional actors. Time and again, the biggest realization is that no matter how negatively they expect someone might react to their honesty, lies often lead to more distress than truthfulness does.
This morning, I dropped my son off at kindergarten. I asked him if he wanted to tell his teacher what happened. He firmly shook his head, expressing fear that his teacher would be mad at him for taking the toy.
"It takes courage to tell the truth," I said.
For a moment, we remained silent. Then, suddenly, he looked up at me and said he had changed his mind. Just a few minutes later, with flushed cheeks, downcast eyes, and my hand squeezed tightly in his, my little boy struggled to express the truth to his teacher.
And what was her reaction? She knelt down and gave him a big hug.
"I know that must have been hard for you to admit that you took that toy, but I’m so glad you chose to be honest about it..."
