When I was a child, there was an incident that upset me deeply. It’s one that stayed with me for a long time. My parents and I were out for dinner with family friends and their children. In this week’s blog, I share what followed: misbehavior, accusations, and lies. This story matters, because I hope it reminds you that sometimes no matter what you do, your truth is yours alone. You can scream from the rooftops, but it won’t matter with certain individuals. That’s when you’re better off expending your energy elsewhere.
Now, back to the restaurant setting I mentioned. While the adults settled into conversation, the kids tried to entertain themselves around the restaurant. At some point, a few children began playing with a round table that had a glass top. Something about it didn’t sit right with me. I remember standing nearby, watching but not joining in, sensing that this could end badly. Unsurprisingly, it did.
Someone spun the table too hard. The glass top slipped, fell, and cracked. Chaos followed: concerned adults, restaurant staff, and raised voices. In the middle of it all, one of the kids who had also been watching ran to my parents and told them I had been involved. I hadn’t.
Later that evening, my parents asked me what had happened. Calmly, honestly and adamantly, I told them the truth: I had been observing, not participating. But no matter how much I explained, they didn’t believe me. They assumed I was lying. That moment lodged itself somewhere deep inside me.
To be clear, my parents were doing their best. This is not, and never has been, a commentary on their parenting skills, but the impact of that moment on me was real, even if the intention behind it was not harmful.
What hurt wasn’t just the accusation. It was the feeling of not being truly heard and trusted. I could not grasp how it was impossible for the adults to believe me when I was telling the truth. For years after, whenever my parents, partner, friend, or anyone else questioned my version of events, I felt personally affronted. It wasn’t just disagreement. It felt like a judgment of my character.
I would spiral into questions like: What kind of person do they think I am? Do they believe I’m capable of lying without remorse? I had inadvertently made it less about the incident and more about my worth.
Have I never lied? Of course I have. Some white lies. Some I regret deeply. And almost every time, they filled me with shame, because lying doesn’t align with how I want to exist in the world. Ironically, when I was lying, I felt the weight of it, but when I was telling the truth, fully and plainly, I wasn’t believed. That contradiction did something to me where others’ doubts became my doubts.
I began to internalize the belief that I had to be extra good to be trusted. Mistakes, even unintentional ones, were dangerous. I couldn’t afford missteps, because they might be used as proof that I wasn’t honest, reliable, or “good.” Somewhere along the way, being believed became synonymous with being a good human being. If someone doubted me, I didn’t just feel misunderstood; I felt morally flawed. I had outsourced my moral compass.
This pattern showed up everywhere: relationships, work, friendships, even in how I perceived public narratives in politics and social conversations. I started noticing how often people hold wildly different interpretations of the same facts. How truth is filtered through experience, bias, fear, and expectation.
I saw it clearly when I worked in the hotel industry. There were a few bad apples who distorted versions of my consultations with small manipulations, half-truths, and convenient omissions. In the moment, it felt sneaky and deeply unfair. I remember the familiar surge of anger and helplessness rising in my body; however, something different happened that time. Thanks to my performance and consistency, my seniors trusted me. They backed me without hesitation. That experience taught me something important: your truth doesn’t always prevail in the way you expect, but it has a way of serving you in the long run when your actions align with it. It doesn’t mean injustice won’t sting. It does, but it does mean that truth doesn’t always need defending with force; sometimes it needs time.
As I continued healing, I began to realize something else, which was uncomfortable but freeing. I understood that I have the right to distance myself from people who lie about me without a second thought; from those who throw others under the bus to protect their own narratives; from those people who refuse dialogue and won’t make space for both my truth and theirs to coexist.
Previously, if others saw me as dishonest, even unfairly, I wondered if I was actually dishonest. This false belief was a result of handing over authority of my character to people who didn’t fully know me. And that made me feel powerless. Livid. Small.
What I didn’t understand then, but see clearly now, is that people often believe what they need to believe. Their version of events is shaped by their past experiences, their fears, their expectations, and sometimes, their convenience. So, accepting your truth can threaten their own.
It can crack a narrative they’ve held onto for years. It can force them to confront uncomfortable contradictions. And for many people, that feels too risky. So, they reject your version not because it’s false, but because it destabilizes their internal world. This understanding didn’t make the pain completely disappear, but it softened my grip.
Today, as an adult, I still feel the familiar tightening in my chest when my truth is questioned. That reflex didn’t vanish overnight. But now, I pause. I remind myself: I don’t need to convince everyone. I focus on regulating my nervous system instead of arguing my case. I choose discernment over explanation. I ask myself: Is this a relationship where mutual understanding is possible? Or is this a space where I will be judged no matter what?
If it’s the former, I lean into conversation, curiosity, context, and shared humanity. I make an effort to understand their narrative, even when it doesn’t match mine. I strongly believe that’s where growth and connection happen.
Nevertheless, if it’s the latter where judgment is staunch and final, I step back. In those moments, I choose liberation, acceptance, and self-compassion instead of trying to prove my truth to people who have already decided who I am.
When someone is meant to walk with you, they will wrestle with the difference between what they see and what you experience. They’ll ask questions. They’ll stay open. On the other hand, when they’re not meant to, they will appoint themselves judge and jury.
Letting go of the need to be believed by everyone doesn’t mean abandoning integrity. It means finally standing up for yourself.
If you’ve spent years questioning yourself because others questioned you, please know this: your truth is allowed to exist even when it’s inconvenient, misunderstood, or unseen. And maybe the work isn’t always about being louder. Maybe it’s about choosing where your energy belongs.
As always, I am here to support you all the way. I hope you keep in touch with your stories, thoughts, and feedback. If you wish to learn more, please stop by www.imperfectbodies.com. Lastly, if you enjoyed this information, then please share it with others.
My 5-minute guide for when you’re feeling overwhelmed, stuck, or lost. Reset your energy and reconnect with yourself. Bonus audio guide included. Available here: Energy Guide
All the best,
Chaitni