The Illusion of Escape: Running from Secrets

Part 1

I didn’t know how good of a secret keeper I was. Looking back, it was almost an art form—the way I wrapped pieces of myself in layers so deep, even I forgot they were there. I believed those secrets would follow me to the grave, a silent pact I’d made with myself. It was a skill, though not one I would ever list on a résumé. To others, I appeared unburdened, gliding through life with ease. But inside, the secrets were loud, relentless, and suffocating.

My inability to connect with others in a healthy way was palpable, though I couldn’t see it then. It was like trying to build a bridge on a foundation that kept crumbling beneath me. I would blame the people, the circumstances, the culture clash—anything but the quiet war within myself. It would take years before I made the connection between my inability to connect and the secrets I carried.

One line from my book, Freedom, captures the essence of this realization: "She thought a move to America would be an escape from these secrets, but she discovered it was all coming with her anyway." I’d convinced myself that distance could silence the echoes of my past. America was my escape plan, a fresh start. But I quickly learned that secrets don’t adhere to geography. They live in the shadows of your mind, crossing oceans and borders with ease.

My first real confrontation with the weight of my secrets came years later, triggered by a book I’d purchased almost absentmindedly: Healing the Shame That Binds You by John Bradshaw. It had been sitting on my shelf for months, but the title had always tugged at me, as though it knew something I didn’t. When I finally opened it, I was unprepared for the clarity it would bring. The words on the page felt like a mirror, reflecting truths I’d spent decades avoiding. The shame wasn’t just binding me; it was suffocating me.

And I know I’m not alone. Secrets come in many forms. For some, it’s an unspoken trauma, a childhood wound they’ve tucked away to protect themselves. For others, it’s a series of small betrayals, choices they regret but can’t bear to acknowledge. We tell ourselves that if we don’t name them, they can’t hurt us. But the reality is that secrets fester. They seep into our relationships, our decisions, and our very sense of self.

Why do we run from our secrets? The reasons are as varied as the secrets themselves. Fear is often at the root—fear of judgment, rejection, or even self-recognition. There’s a seductive logic to avoidance. If we bury the truth deep enough, perhaps we can live as though it never happened. The illusion of escape becomes a coping mechanism, a survival strategy.

But distance doesn’t erase secrets; it amplifies them. The further I ran, the louder they became, like a persistent whisper in the back of my mind. I’ve seen this pattern in others as well. A woman I once knew moved across the country after a painful breakup, only to find the same patterns repeating with new partners. A man I coached left his high-stress job, thinking he’d find peace in a simpler life, but his anxiety followed him into retirement. Secrets and unresolved wounds have a way of showing up, no matter where you go.

The illusion of escape is just that: an illusion. It’s the belief that we can outrun the past, that avoidance is the answer. But the truth is, secrets demand to be acknowledged. They linger in the quiet moments, waiting for us to turn and face them. And when we do, the initial fear often gives way to something unexpected: relief.