Last night’s post was written under a coffee haze while taking a break from developing an elaborate clue hunt that, ostensibly, was created by Santa Claus. As I’m watching my boys excitedly tear through the house looking for these presents I can’t help but think about how much of a lie Christmas has become. We lie about Santa, we lie about the hunt, we added the elf on the shelf–another layer of lies. As I peel back another layer of my life and expose the rawness beneath I find that the lies never stop. We lie about being happy, being fulfilled. We lie in order to be strong and put up appearances for the family, for each other, for ourselves. Lie after lie after lie and never once do I call myself a liar. The truth is, I can tell any story, adapt to the situation in any way and it all becomes another costume that I wear, another layer that I put on to keep me from exposing myself to, well, myself and confronting the very real flaws and challenges I have as an individual. Lying and running. I used to think I was pretty damn good at one of those things, but as it turns out, my true strength is in the other.