Hey Reader,
​
It’s been a while since I’ve written to you. I think it’s been close to two months now.

Not because there hasn’t been anything worth saying, but because I’ve been more immersed in the work itself—writing, building, creating—and less in stepping back to talk about it.

This week, though, something came up that felt worth sharing.

A man in our community asked me a question:

“Why do I lie?”

He wasn’t talking about anything dramatic or explosive. He was pointing to something quieter and more familiar—leaving things out, softening the truth, avoiding certain conversations altogether.

We unpacked it live, just the two of us in front of the group. No script, no performance. Just a real conversation.

And what came out of it is something I think most men will recognize if they’re honest enough to look.

When truth stops feeling safe

What if most men don’t lie because they’re bad…

…but because, somewhere along the way, telling the truth stopped feeling safe?

Not physically. Emotionally.

Safe to be seen as they actually are. Safe to not lose connection. Safe to not deal with the reaction they expect will follow.

So instead of risking that, we start managing things.

We shape the truth. Trim it down. Leave out the parts that feel like they might create problems.

And over time, that becomes a pattern.

I know this one from the inside.

The moment I realized I wasn’t as honest as I thought

For most of my life, I considered myself impeccably honest. The kind of honesty that could even be uncomfortable at times.

But then I ran into situations that exposed something else.

A kind of… nice-guy dishonesty.

This showed up during a season in my marriage where things weren’t awful, but they weren’t good either. And during that time, I developed a close relationship with another woman.

It wasn’t an affair. But it stirred things in me I couldn’t ignore.

Parts that felt unmet. Unaddressed. Difficult to even understand.

On one hand, I wanted to be upright. Faithful. True to my commitments.

On the other hand, I knew that burying what I was feeling or numbing out wasn’t actually honest either.

So I tried to stay with it. To understand it.

And I tested honesty.

The way most nice guys do… with a few soft, careful “let’s see how this lands” attempts.

They did not land well.

The hornet’s nest lesson

It reminded me of being a kid, throwing rocks at a hornet’s nest with the neighborhood boys.

At some point, I decided to stop tossing from a distance and walked right up to it—about 18 inches away—and fired one straight into the nest.

It was one of those moments where all your pals are thinking you’re either really brave or really dumb.

Turns out… probably both, but maybe a bit more of the latter.

Because what followed was a swarm of very angry hornets that had zero appreciation for what I’d just done.

That’s what those early moments of honesty with Zelda felt like.

A lot of “won’t do that again” tension, and a lot of wincing and sighing.

Not because I was doing something immoral, but because I was encountering parts of myself that were still unclear, unformed, and vulnerable, parts I didn’t fully understand, let alone feel ready to have seen.

How men start editing the truth

When that kind of reaction enters a relationship, something predictable happens.

Insecurity shows up.

And when insecurity shows up, most people don’t become more open.

They try to regain control.

I could feel that shift. Not always in what was said, but in how things were asked, how things were received. There was a weight to it.

Simple questions didn’t feel simple.

“How was your day?” started to feel more like I was being asked to account for it.

Who did you talk to?
What did you talk about?
Why did that come up?

And I found myself starting to think ahead.

Replaying my day before I even walked in the door.
Organizing it in a way that would be easier to explain.
Smoothing out anything that felt like it might land wrong.

At one point, I even tried the “total transparency” route.

Copying my wife on emails. Sharing more than I normally would. Trying to get ahead of any possible concern.

And it didn’t really change the dynamic.

Because the issue wasn’t really about what I was or wasn't doing.

It was how everything was being experienced on both sides.

And inside of that, I could feel the pressure building.

So I adapted.

I don’t remember outright lying.

But I was editing. Filtering.

Giving a version that felt easier to receive, while holding back what I knew would be harder.

At the time, it felt reasonable. Even responsible.

But it didn’t create more connection.

It created distance.

Because once you start managing the truth, you’re no longer in the relationship as yourself.

You’re relating from a position of protection.

And the other person doesn’t actually get you; they get a sanitized version of you.

And something in them can feel that.

Which only creates more insecurity… more questioning… more pressure.

And without realizing it, both people end up reinforcing the very dynamic they don’t want.

What we actually want (but don’t know how to create)

Looking back now—and especially in conversations like this week, and even one I had earlier today with a couple—I see something much more clearly.

Underneath all of this…

Both people usually want the same thing.

Intimacy.

To feel known. Met. Accepted. To feel like we can actually be ourselves with another person.

I didn’t know how to name that back then, but that’s what I was chasing.

Intimacy was the scent in the air I was trying to track.

But intimacy isn’t something we just decide to have.

It requires vulnerability.

And vulnerability requires telling the truth—fully—about your experience.

Not the edited version.

The real one.

Why safety is the gatekeeper

Here’s the part I didn’t understand back then, and that I find a lot of people miss.

We can only be that honest to the degree we feel safe.

Men are not an exception. We want and need safety as much as women.

Back then, I didn’t feel safe.

And I thought that was a partner problem.

I thought if I could just find the “right” kind of safe person, everything would resolve.

I was wrong.

Safety doesn’t start "out there."

It starts within.

Because the moment telling the truth feels like it might lead to rejection, conflict, or loss…

Fear shows up.

And underneath that, almost always, is shame.

And when shame is present, you don’t move toward being seen.

You move toward hiding.

That’s where lying actually begins.

Not as a strategy.

As protection.

Why honesty feels so hard in relationships

So what you end up with in a lot of relationships is this:

Two people who want intimacy…

…but don’t feel safe enough to create it.

He manages what he shares, so he doesn’t trigger something.

She reacts or closes in ways that make it harder to stay open.

And slowly, without either person intending it, the space between them becomes less and less honest.

It can still look like connection.

But it isn’t the kind that allows you to be fully known.

The edge most men avoid

What struck me in that conversation this week was when the same man who said, "Why do I lie?" went on to say:

“I don’t want to hide anything anymore!”

That’s a real turning point.

Because it means you’re no longer organizing your life around avoiding discomfort.

You’re willing to tell the truth without knowing how it will land.

Without trying to control the response.

Without protecting your image.

That doesn’t always make things easier right away.

But it does make something real possible.

So I’ll leave you with this:

Where in your life are you still managing the truth instead of actually telling it?

Not the obvious places.

The subtle ones.

The conversations you keep postponing. The parts of yourself you instinctively edit. The things you already know you’re not saying.

If you want to share, you can hit reply.

I read every response.

—Sven

P.S. Everything changed for me when I had a space where I could stop editing and actually tell the truth about what was going on inside of me. That’s what allowed me to meet parts of myself I’d been avoiding—and it’s what made real intimacy in my marriage possible.

If you don’t have that, start there.

If I can help, reply and let me know what you need.