Denial (a love letter to your very protective brain)
Oof. Denial is such a big word. Before we dive in, start with a breath. In… out. If the word denial makes your shoulders creep toward your ears, you’re not alone. Denial gets a bad rap, but here’s a kinder take: it’s a self-protection strategy your nervous system learned a long time ago. “Too much! Too fast!” says your inner safety officer, and—whoosh—down comes the curtain.
That curtain isn’t villainous. It’s a first aid blanket. It keeps you functioning when the truth feels too sharp to handle bare-handed. The trouble comes when the blanket becomes a duvet fort you never leave. Cozy, sure. Growth? Not so much.
Today’s invitation: acknowledge the fear, then replace it with the insight of awareness—gently, at a speed your body can actually tolerate.
What denial really sounds like (it’s sneakier than you think)
It rarely announces itself with a neon sign. More often it shows up as:
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.” (Translation: I’m tap-dancing on a volcano.)
“Other people have it worse.” (True, and also irrelevant to your experience.)
“I’m just busy right now.” (For the 19th month in a row.)
“It was just a joke.” (It wasn’t. Your stomach still remembers.)
“If I don’t think about it, it can’t hurt me.” (Your body thought about it for you at 3:07 a.m.)
Denial numbs, narrows, and delays. Awareness widens, warms, and decides.
Why we avoid looking (spoiler: you’re not broken)
Denial is fear wearing a sensible cardigan. Fear of loss, change, conflict, being “too much,” being “not enough,” or—my personal classic—fear that if we admit the truth, we’ll be obligated to blow up our lives by Tuesday.
Here’s the reframe: awareness doesn’t force action; it enables choice. Looking doesn’t mean you have to fix everything right now. It means you stop tripping on the same ottoman in the dark.
The 2% Truth method (because “whole truth or nothing” is a trap)
You don’t need to rip off the bandage and stare at the wound under fluorescent lighting. Try this instead:
Name 2% more truth than you were willing to say yesterday.
“This job isn’t working” might begin as “I dread Mondays and Thursdays.”
“This relationship is over” might begin as “I feel lonely beside you more often than not.”
Let your body catch up. Breathe. Drink water. Touch something solid (table, wall, tree). Tell your system, “We’re safe to notice this.”
Stop there for today. Tomorrow, another 2%. Small truths accumulate like compound interest.
A kinder look: curiosity beats self-cross-examination
If your inner critic sounds like a courtroom drama, fire them. Hire a curious librarian.
Critic: “Why didn’t you see this sooner?”
Librarian: “Interesting. When did you start feeling this? What was happening then?”
Critic: “How could you let this happen?”
Librarian: “What did this protect you from? Is that protection still needed?”
You’ll get farther with clipboards and soft cardigans than gavels and spotlights.
Spot the body tells (your wisdom lives below the neck)
Your thinking brain can rationalise anything; your body is a terrible liar.
Jaw clenched? Shoulders auditioning for ear muffs?
That specific ache when a certain name lights up your phone?
Headaches every Sunday night?
The way your stomach drops when you say, “It was nothing”?
These are data points, not drama. Awareness starts with noticing the signals without slapping a story on top.
Try: “When X happens, my body does Y.” Full stop. That’s awareness. No self-scolding required.
Three questions that open the door (without kicking it in)
What am I pretending not to know?
(Say it kindly. You’ll hear a whisper before you get a shout.)If nothing had to change today, what truth would I allow myself to see?
(Remind your fear you’re just looking, not launching.)What would 10 seconds of bravery admit?
(Set a timer. Say it out loud. Then breathe.)
The Compassionate Audit (15 minutes, one pen, zero judgement)
Draw three columns: Me, Them, The Situation. Under each, write facts (not feelings) that support what’s working and what’s not. Facts only: “He cancelled four times,” not “He doesn’t care.” “I slept 5 hours/night this month,” not “I’m failing at life.”
When you separate people from patterns, the next step stops feeling like an indictment and starts feeling like maintenance.
Titrated truth (because blasting yourself with reality isn’t bravery)
Think of awareness like turning up a dimmer, not flipping a floodlight. Your nervous system likes increments:
Read the email once, not twelve times.
Have the hard conversation for 20 minutes, not three hours.
Take one concrete step (book the consult, open the document, ask the question), then rest.
Courage that honours capacity is the kind that lasts.
“But what if looking means I have to change everything?”
It might mean you’ll change something, later. For now, promise yourself only this: I will not gaslight myself. You can stay, go, pause, plan, renegotiate, nap—whatever today allows. The win is that you’re telling the truth to you.
And sometimes the first change is small and annoyingly practical: eat lunch, drink water, sleep more than a squirrel. Amazing how many life crises downgrade from DEFCON 1 after a sandwich.
When denial lives outside you (family, work, community)
You may be seeing truths others aren’t ready to hold. Be a gentle truth-teller without turning yourself into a battering ram.
Try phrases like:
“Here’s what I’m noticing, and here’s how it affects me.”
“I respect that you see it differently; I’m still choosing X.”
“I care about us, so I’m naming this.”
“I’m not available for this topic today.”
Context matters. Safety matters. Your job isn’t to convert anyone; it’s to live honestly in your own square metre.
Micro-practices to move from fear to awareness
Name + Neutralise. “I’m scared of seeing this.” (Hand to heart.) “Of course I am.” Then: “I can be scared and honest.”
The One True Sentence. Write one line you know is true. Put a period at the end. Not a paragraph. Not a plan. A period.
Future-You Test. “What would tomorrow-me thank me for?” Do just that. (Sometimes it’s call the therapist; sometimes it’s go for a walk.)
Two Lists. What I’m afraid will happen if I look. / What has been happening because I won’t. Read both. Choose the kinder discomfort.
Ally Bench. Make a tiny support team (friend, counsellor, book, podcast). Tell them, “I’m practising honest seeing.” Let people help you hold the mirror.
Boundaries are awareness in action (and they can be tender)
Once you see, you can’t unsee. You also don’t have to overcorrect. Boundaries aren’t brick walls; they’re garden fences with a gate and clear visiting hours.
“I’m not available for jokes like that.”
“I’m changing how I do this; here’s the new plan.”
“I need time before I answer.”
“No, thank you.” (That is a complete sentence. Fancy, I know.)
Your boundary may wobble at first. That’s okay. Re-set it kindly. Consistency grows confidence.
When the feelings arrive (and they will)
Awareness often opens the door to grief, anger, relief, shame, hope—sometimes all before lunch. None of these feelings are proof you’ve made a mistake; they’re proof you’re alive.
Grief: you’re mourning the version of reality you wanted.
Anger: boundaries waking up from a long nap.
Shame: the nervous system’s “hide!” reflex. Meet it with warmth, not a whip.
Relief: your body thanking you for telling the truth.
Let them move through. Feelings are weather; you are the sky.
A tiny script for right now
If something in you is whispering, “Maybe I’m ready to look,” try this, out loud:
“I acknowledge my fear. I’m replacing it with awareness—at a pace that honours me. I don’t have to fix it all today. Seeing it is enough for now.”
Then do one small, concrete thing that matches that vow: write the sentence, send the email, open the budget, book the appointment, tell the friend. Then stop. Celebrate with a cup of tea or three minutes of staring out the window like a dignified house cat.
The gentle promise
Denial may have protected you once. Thank it for its service. Awareness will serve you now. It gives you choice, capacity, and dignity. It lets you steer instead of being dragged.
You do not have to bulldoze your life to live truthfully. You only have to keep turning toward what’s real with as much compassion as you can muster, one breath and one better question at a time.
You’re safe to see. You’re safe to feel. You’re safe to know.
And as you practise that—slowly, kindly—you’ll find yourself walking forward with more freedom, more clarity, and a heart that trusts itself again.