Why Clients Lie

Why Clients Lie
And What Happens When We Choose to Stay in the Room

For a year, "Aaron" lied to me.
He lied to his parents.
He lied to himself.

He came to us at 19—smart, charming, tightly wound, and full of potential. His history with pornography addiction had already crossed legal lines by the time he entered our program. His parents were afraid. He was afraid. Everyone agreed: Something had to change.

And for a while, it seemed like it was.

He showed up to coaching sessions every week. He joined a 12 step program. He participated in our therapeutic support groups Engaged. Took notes. Said the right things. We crafted a recovery plan. He nodded along. We talked boundaries, triggers, routines, goals.  Slowly, he earned back limited internet access.

He told me he was clean.  

But he wasn’t.

For a year, Aaron was secretly using pornography almost every day. He just got better at hiding it.

Addicts will find a way.  And he did.  His parents didn't think to lock down the gaming machines – not knowing they had web browsers that could be used in incognito mode.  So that's what Aaron used – night after night.

Until one night, his father walked into his room unannounced—and everything unraveled.

I still remember that sinking feeling when his mother called me. It wasn’t anger I felt first. It was grief.

And then, if I’m being honest, I took it personally.

It felt like betrayal. I’d invested in this kid. Believed in him. Advocated for him. And the whole time, he was lying to my face.

But the longer I sat with that reaction, the more I recognized it as my own ego. My own need to be the helper who “fixes it.” That wasn’t the role I was meant to play—not in his life, not in anyone’s recovery.

Because clients don’t lie to hurt us.
They lie to protect themselves.

They lie because they’re scared.
Scared of punishment.
Scared of abandonment.
Scared that they’re too far gone.

Sometimes they lie because the truth feels too big to face—and because shame still has a louder voice than hope.

Aaron wasn’t trying to manipulate me. He was trying to survive. Lying was one of the last tools he had left to avoid collapse. And when it finally stopped working—when the lie cracked open—we were given a rare gift: A chance to begin again, this time with everything on the table.

So we did something simple, but not easy:
We stayed in the room.

No dramatics. No moralizing. No ultimatums.

Instead, we called a family meeting. Talked through what had happened. Laid bare the cost of secrecy. Named the breaches of trust—and also named the possibility of repair.

I asked Aaron one simple question:
“Are you still willing to work with me?”

And to his credit, he was.

This time, the work looks different. We're not just focused on stopping the behavior—we're digging into what drives it. We're starting to name the shame that’s shaped his choices. To examine the parts of himself he’s learned to hide. And to lay a foundation for trust—not just between Aaron and his family, or between Aaron and me, but within Aaron himself.

We’ve rebuilt the structure of the program: daily check-ins, tighter filters, clearly defined goals. But more than that, we’re building emotional scaffolding—places where vulnerability can live without fear of rejection. Where honesty, even when it's hard, is met with accountability and compassion.

Aaron’s not “cured.” He hasn’t made it through.
We’re just at the point where he’s recommitting.

The relapse forced a reckoning. Now we begin again—with eyes wide open and hearts cautiously hopeful. All the real work still lies ahead of us.

But here’s what I’ve learned through this process:

When a client lies to you, it doesn’t mean the work has failed.
It means the work is calling you deeper.

The rupture is real—but so is the opportunity.

If we respond with shame, we lose them.
If we respond with curiosity, structure, and care—we keep them.

Recovery isn’t linear. It’s rarely tidy. And the clients who lie and come clean—they’re not lost causes.

They’re the ones standing at the edge of real change.
They’re the ones who just might go furthest—because they’ve tasted what it means to be forgiven, and still invited to keep showing up.

Aaron’s story isn’t finished.
But right now, he’s in the room.
And that’s where healing begins.