As a kid, I was naturally clumsy, always covered in bruises from endless falls and scrapes. It was a part of my life, always wondering what I’d bumped into or tripped over this time. In the early 80s, at my after-school care, a staff member noticed the bruises and assumed the worst, that someone at home was hurting me. The staff pulled me aside, asking questions and pushing their own narrative. I told them the truth; I’d fallen off my bike. But that answer didn’t satisfy them. They kept pressing, their voices growing sharper with each “Are you sure?” “Did your parents do this?” and “You can tell us if something is wrong.” The questioning felt endless, as if I was being cornered; each answer I gave was insufficient.

After what felt like hours, exhausted and hungry, I realized they wouldn’t let me go outside to play unless I told them what they wanted to hear. They kept promising I could leave as soon as I gave them the “right” answer. So, I made up an elaborate story, a ridiculous tale of a dungeon under my parents’ bed where I was supposedly tied up and beaten. Ironically, this absurd lie felt more believable to them than my simple truth. They clung to every fabricated detail, were convinced they’d cracked some dark secret, and called the police. When the police showed up at my door, I finally had the chance to explain what really happened, that I’d lied because they wouldn’t stop pressuring me and wouldn’t believe me when I told the truth. All I wanted was for the questioning to stop and to go outside and play.

The police eventually closed the case, but the entire experience left a mark. That was when I started running away. I was tired of feeling like my words didn’t matter, tired of being misunderstood and doubted. It became clear that my truth held no weight against what others wanted to believe. At that moment, I learned a hard truth that would come back around later in life: sometimes honesty doesn’t matter if people have already decided what they want to believe. What I said didn’t matter; people would believe whatever fit their narrative, not my reality.