There is a line I heard in a song that has been following me around: “But even lies come dressed in effort sometimes.” At first, I thought it was about other people — the obvious place to start. The relationships that felt convincing because someone tried. The situations that lasted longer than they should have because effort was being expended. But the longer the line stayed with me, the more it turned inward. Because the most exhausting lies are not always the ones we tell others. They are the ones we keep up with ourselves. There are versions of our lives that require constant upkeep. Narratives we repeat so often they begin to sound like truth. Not because they are, but because abandoning them would mean admitting something uncomfortable: that we settled, that we stayed too long, that we chose safety over honesty, or familiarity over alignment. Those admissions cost more than the effort of maintaining the lie. So we try. We show up. We perform consistency. We add small acts o...
Today I went thrift shopping. Anyone who thrifts knows the small, private ritual of it: racks too full, mirrors too honest, time moving differently. As I tried on different outfits, something familiar struck me — not for the first time, but with unusual clarity. How important it is to know what you like. And, equally, how important it is to know what does not work for you. There are colours I reach for instinctively, silhouettes I trust. There are fabrics I already know will irritate me, cuts that have betrayed me before. Knowing these things saves time. It spares frustration. It narrows the field in a place designed to overwhelm. And yet. Every so often, something unexpected catches my eye. Something I would never normally pick. Different colour. Different shape. Slightly uncomfortable, conceptually. I try it on anyway — not because I expect it to work, but because curiosity feels safer than certainty in that moment. Sometimes it’s awful. Sometimes it’s quietly perfect. That sm...