What Is Truth, Really?

“How are you doing?”

“I’m getting dumber and uglier by the day, but there’s naught that can be done about it.”

You probably think I’m joking, and I am. Mostly. It’s a line I’ve used for years to see how people react and to get them talking. Some people laugh. Some tell me I’m being too hard on myself. Some people just nod as though they’re saying, “Yeah, same.”

I’m forty-seven now. There are noticeable things about me that are hard to ignore. My beard which was mostly dark brown three years ago now has only hues of gray and white. My face is rounder. The words to explain things take longer to come when I’m tired. None of it bothers me exactly — it just surprises me. Somewhere along the line, I became middle-aged. Nobody filed a form in triplicate for my approval.

It just happened.

There’s a kind of truth in that line I tell people, but it’s a messy one. I say it like a joke so no one will take it too seriously, including me. It’s safer to hide inside humor than to admit I sometimes wonder where the sharper, quicker version of me went.

At a conference several years ago, my wife and I were told to tell a short story twice—first with drama, then with only the facts. When the facts came, all the color drained out. “The man wore a red shirt,” someone said, and that was the end of the story. Everyone laughed, but I kept thinking about it.

It’s easy to believe that truth lives in statements like that. Mostly verifiable; something you can hang your hat on. Lately, though, I’m not so sure.

When I tell someone I’m tired, there are many things that can be true at the same time. I’m grateful, I feel a sense of accomplishment, and I’m worn out. I love my work and it’s breaking me down. I miss who I was and I’m proud of who I’ve become. Truth feels less like a single point now and more like the space between them.

Some days, truth sounds like my son calling from the other room, wanting me to see something small yet important to him. Other days, it’s watching the end if my wife’s nose move up and down ever so slightly when she talks. None of it’s headline material, but it’s real, and carries far more weight that most of what goes on in the world around me.

I think, just maybe, that’s what truth is. It’s what still holds when you find a way to quiet the rest of the noise. It’s the part that doesn’t need defending or explanation.

The lived part.

So when someone asks how I’m doing, maybe “dumber and uglier” isn’t the whole truth, but it’s close enough to start a conversation. It’s my shorthand for I’m still here, still learning, still human.

And that is enough.