The Truth We Can’t Unsee: When the Image Shatters

There’s a strange kind of heartbreak that happens when you finally see someone clearly.

Not when they change.
Not when they betray you.
But when you stop hiding from the truth you already knew.

That’s what happened to me recently.

I heard a song on the radio—"I Got the Eye of the Tiger." It brought someone to mind. Someone I once felt deep compassion for. Someone who had been through a great deal at the hands of a man we both knew. Someone I can’t reach out to anymore, not because I don’t care, but because I need strong, sacred boundaries around my healing now.

And just to be clear—this isn’t about my husband. This is about a past connection that carried emotional weight, but ultimately brought harm.

As the lyrics played, I found myself thinking: I hate what he did to her.
And then, almost in the same breath: But somehow, the version I knew… didn’t seem like that person.

That stopped me cold.

Because what I realized is this: I had created two versions of him.
One, the manipulative and controlling man I knew existed—because I had seen the impact.
And the other, the version I needed him to be: my best friend, the one who saw me, matched me, energized me, trusted only me. The one who didn’t judge me. The one who understood my burnout, my ambition, my darkness.

The version I needed him to be so I could survive the reality I was living.

So I split the truth.
I gave the worst of him to someone else.
And kept the version I could tolerate close enough to comfort me.

We all do this in different ways.

Maybe for you, it’s not a relationship like mine. Maybe it’s a boss you’ve been trying to please who keeps shifting the target. Or a parent you keep hoping will approve of your life. Or a partner who hasn’t really shown up in years, but you still tell yourself, “He’s just stressed.” Maybe it’s even you—the version of yourself you keep performing, pretending she’s fine, when she’s quietly unraveling inside.

When we’re burnt out, when trauma is thick in the air, when we feel like we’re hanging on by a thread—we don’t always have the strength to hold the whole truth. So we make edits. We compartmentalize. We tell ourselves stories that make the pain manageable.

It’s not manipulation.
It’s survival.

But eventually—if you’re lucky, if you’re brave, if you’re healing—your nervous system softens enough to see it all.

And when that happens, you don’t just unsee them.

You start to see you.
The version of you that needed to believe the illusion.
The part of you that was trying so hard to be okay.
The version of you that clung to the comfort of the lie because the truth would’ve broken you wide open.

And that moment—the shattering—isn’t your failure.
It’s your freedom.

Because now, I see it clearly.
I see how I turned away from my own truth because I thought I couldn’t hold it.
I see how I gave away the parts of someone that were too ugly to reconcile and only kept what I needed to feel safe.
I see how badly I wanted someone to get me, so I pretended he did—even as he harmed others, and ultimately, harmed me.

And now that I see it—I can’t unsee it.
And I wouldn’t want to.

Because this is what unburdening looks like.
Not just releasing the weight of other people’s expectations—but also releasing the illusions we created to survive.

The truth is heavy.
But carrying falsehood is heavier.

If you’ve been holding onto a version of someone—or even a version of yourself—that no longer matches your reality…
If you’ve been performing strength when you're breaking down…
If you’ve been pretending someone can still meet your needs when deep down, you know they can’t—
You’re not wrong. You’re not weak. You’re not broken.
You’re just burdened. And it’s okay to lay that burden down now.

You are allowed to grieve the version of the story that kept you going.
You are allowed to see clearly, and still be gentle with yourself.
You are allowed to become whole—even if it means letting go of who you thought they were.

This is the work of coming home to yourself.

And it is holy.