The Psychology of Lying: How Childhood Learning Shapes Adult Behaviour

AI Generated Image via DALL-E

Lying is one of those things we all know is frowned upon, yet almost everyone does it at some point - some more often than others. It’s easy to think of lying as a moral failure or a character flaw, but the truth is often more complicated. Behind most lies is a very human need: the need to feel safe. When we understand lying as a learned coping strategy, rather than just a behavioural problem, it opens up a whole new way to view ourselves and others - with more compassion, curiosity, and care.

Let’s start at the beginning. Childhood is where our relationship with truth and honesty often begins to take shape. If you think back to being a kid, chances are there was a time you did something “wrong” and were punished for it. Maybe you broke something by accident, maybe you forgot something important, or maybe you acted out because you were upset or overwhelmed. What happened next likely taught you a powerful lesson. If the response you got was anger, shame, or punishment, then you may have quickly learned that telling the truth wasn’t always safe. And so, lying becomes a tool - not for manipulation, but for survival. It becomes a way to dodge the intensity of someone else’s disappointment, anger, or judgement. Children are incredibly observant, and they’re also deeply attuned to emotional responses. When a child gets punished or shamed for being honest about a mistake, it sends a loud message: don’t tell the truth if it might upset someone. And the more this happens, the more lying becomes automatic. Not because a child is bad or dishonest, but because they’re scared. And that fear doesn’t just disappear with age. It grows with us, and unless it’s gently unlearned, it stays with us into adulthood.

The truth is punishment doesn’t teach empathy. It teaches fear. And fear doesn’t encourage responsibility - it encourages secrecy. It teaches us to manage the reactions of others, rather than understand the impact of our actions. So, instead of developing a healthy sense of accountability, we may learn to become hyper-aware of how to avoid conflict. We learn to hide our missteps, cover up our mistakes, or bend the truth just enough to stay in the clear. Lying becomes a kind of emotional armour.

But it’s not just about avoiding punishment. Sometimes we learn to lie because it gets us better results. A small exaggeration gets us praise. A polished version of the truth gets approval. Over time, these little wins reinforce the idea that honesty doesn’t always serve us well, and that being real might actually cost us something. We end up performing a version of ourselves that feels more acceptable to others - even if it’s not entirely true. This kind of lying - lying for reward or approval - can be harder to recognise because it doesn’t always feel wrong. In fact, it often feels smart. It gets us through awkward moments, helps us avoid discomfort, and lets us manage how people see us. But it also creates distance. We start to feel unknown, unseen - even when we’re surrounded by people. Because deep down, we know we’re not showing the full truth of who we are.

Lying also becomes a way to protect our emotional world. When you’ve grown up feeling like your feelings are too much or your needs are inconvenient, you learn to shrink. You lie about what you want. You pretend you’re okay when you’re not. You say yes when you mean no, and no when you mean yes. These aren’t lies meant to harm - they’re lies meant to keep us safe. But in the long run, they chip away at our ability to be honest, not just with others but with ourselves.

For many, lying is part of living in survival mode. When life feels unpredictable, when relationships don’t feel secure, or when the environment we’re in doesn’t allow us to show up as we truly are, lying becomes a shortcut to safety. It’s not about manipulation. It’s about control - the need to manage how much of ourselves we reveal in order to avoid rejection or pain. This might mean lying to a partner to avoid an argument, hiding financial troubles out of shame, or saying "I’m fine" when we’re anything but. These small lies start stacking up until they feel normal. Until they start running our lives. But here’s where it gets messy: when lying becomes a deeply ingrained pattern, it can lead to self-serving behaviour. Not because we’re selfish, but because we’re constantly juggling so many internal fears, thoughts, and emotional flashbacks. We become focused on managing those feelings, avoiding discomfort, and maintaining control. And sometimes, that means prioritising emotional safety over honesty. This is especially true when we’re afraid of hurting someone we care about. We might lie to avoid conflict, thinking it’s the kindest option. We might hide something because we think the truth would do more damage. But in trying to spare someone else’s feelings, we often rob them - and ourselves - of the chance for real connection.

Over time, these habits can start to feel isolating. We might feel like no one really knows us. We might carry guilt or shame for being dishonest, even if we had good intentions. We might find it hard to trust others - because how can we believe in someone else’s honesty when we’re not being honest ourselves? This emotional tension adds up. And it can start to show up as anxiety, low self-esteem, or fractured relationships. But none of this means we’re broken. It just means we learned to adapt in ways that helped us survive - even if those ways no longer serve us. Lying isn’t a character flaw - it’s a coping mechanism. And like any coping mechanism, it can be unlearned when we feel safe enough to do so.

So, what does that look like? It starts with curiosity, not shame. Asking ourselves, “Why did I feel the need to lie just now?” or “What was I afraid would happen if I told the truth?” These kinds of questions open the door to deeper understanding. They help us see that our lies often point to unmet needs - needs for safety, acceptance, love, and control. When we meet those needs in healthier ways, the compulsion to lie starts to fade.

We also begin to heal when we practice honesty in safe, supportive environments. Spaces where it’s okay to make mistakes. Where the truth doesn’t get punished. Where vulnerability is met with kindness, not judgement. Whether that’s with a therapist, a trusted friend, or even just with ourselves in a journal, these small moments of honesty can help us rewire what truth feels like. Not as something dangerous or shameful, but as something freeing and empowering. And it’s important to remember that honesty doesn’t mean full disclosure all the time. Boundaries still matter. Privacy still matters. What we’re aiming for is congruence - an alignment between our inner world and our outer expression. The more we honour what’s true for us, the more ease we feel in our bodies, our minds, and our relationships. Healing the habit of lying is not about becoming perfect or brutally honest. It’s about learning to feel safe being real. It’s about letting go of the belief that we have to perform in order to be loved. It’s about trusting that we are enough - even in our mistakes, our mess, and our vulnerability. And that’s not something we owe to anyone else. That’s something we give to ourselves.

So, if you find yourself lying more than you’d like to, try not to judge it too harshly. Instead, get curious about it. What are you trying to protect? What are you afraid of losing? And what might happen if you gave yourself the chance to be seen as you really are - imperfect, honest, human? The truth is most of us are just trying to navigate the world with the tools we were given. And whilst lying might have once kept us safe, it’s never too late to pick up new tools. Tools that help us build relationships rooted in trust, not performance. Tools that help us meet our needs without hiding parts of ourselves. Tools that remind us that being real is not only safe - but also the bravest thing we can do.