The Lie I Almost Built My Life Around

How the boogeyman convinced me not to tell stories

A raw, unedited, radically honest letter from OBA’s founder to you about how to tell your truth in public and stay whole while doing it.

---

Dear Radical,

I agonized over writing this letter. I haven’t written anything since December and even more I haven’t thought about what I would say if I had to write something. But I sat down to write today because I was thinking of you. I hope that I can be vulnerable with you, and if I may, share a story.

It was Friday, maybe Sunday. I don’t really remember, but I was sitting on a carpeted staircase, the sun peaking in through the transom window. Darth Vader had Aladdin dangling from the top step and was preparing to give the greatest speech in the history of all villainy. I, being the greatest director and maybe playwright my 8-year-old world had ever known, had crafted a magnificent adventure with this thrilling climactic moment for my protagonist.

Xena the warrior princess and Hamburgler were waiting at the bottom step for Aladdin to make his daring escape. The Lion King Hyenas salivated at the prospect of a delectable meal. Aladdin’s quippy remark was at the ready as he plotted to escape Vader and the Empire’s evil plans. It was all planned, every heart-pounding moment. What wasn’t planned was the giant boogeyman, whom i then would have affectionately referred to as my father, looming in front of me, his shadow cutting into the setting sun.

“What you doing boy?” The boogeyman bellowed.

“Playing…” I proclaimed.

“You doing that voice thing again?”

I started to explain the need for the stars of my show to have dialogue, but the boogeyman wouldn’t have it.

“The fuck is wrong with you? I told you, be a man. A man don’t talk to himself, he don’t play. Be a fucking man. You keep it up I’mma whoop your ass.”

Vader stopped mid-monologue, Aladdin tumbled to the step below, all of us frozen under the boogeyman’s apathetic stare. My lower lip trembled and the words that dared to peek out at him shriveled at the crown of my throat.

Be a man. Be a man. I held onto the words, dragging them up the stairs with my toys, tucking them in with me when i went to bed, swallowing them at breakfast the next day. Be a Man.

The words were meant to make me strong. They were designed to help me fulfill a destiny he and all those before him expected me to fill. Instead he taught me to be silent. And silence as a Black boy who is poor, mentally ill, neurodivergent, pansexual, and who is being taught that his every ambition must have a ceiling, is the first lesson the system needed me to learn.

And my father wasn’t the only one complicit in this lesson. The Church, my school, my neighbors, the streets taught me very early: my voice was dangerous, my play was foolish, and my success was unlikely.

As I sit here and think back to that day, I know it was that moment when i started to believe that lie. I carried it with me in every decision I made in my teenage years and into my adulthood. It was the lie that encouraged me to stay on disability, to not try to pursue anything of value, to resign myself to a life of smallness.

We all have that moment. Those words someone says to us. We learn to let it live in our bones, as if it had been there since our birth. We let it convince us that the jobs we want, we aren’t qualified for. The places we want to visit, the communities, relationships and friends we want to have, are far beyond our reach. That the closest we can get to our dreams is in our sleep.

This lie of silence permeated my every waking moment. It rode along with me until I came crashing into my mortality itself. Cancer. Thyroid Cancer. It sought to end the 26 years I had spent on this planet. And what did I have to show for those years? Fear. Doubt. And a lie that had been my comfort since I was that 8-year-old boy on the steps.

I had a choice: Live in the comfort of my lie, do nothing, and die. Or learn a new truth, fight, and hopefully survive.

I chose the latter. Survival became my gateway to breaking the rules. to shattering the lie. They told me I would die in the same town I was born in. I moved to a different state three times. They told me I would never have an actual job. I got a few and then started a company. They told me I would always be alone. I built a team. They said I was too Black. Too weak. Too dumb. I became unapologetic. Powerful. And brilliant.

I see it clear as day now. They want us silent, empty, living at the mercy of a status quo that makes THEM comfortable. But the lesson I hold now as I look back at this is that: when someone wants you to be quiet, it isn’t because what you have to say isn't worth hearing. It’s because it is. Oppressive systems prefer silence because people speaking up is the most terrifying thing they can imagine.

It is because of this that I refuse to carry that lie another day of my life. I reject the belief that I am too much. That my voice isn’t worth sharing. That I have a ceiling. I refuse to make myself small for their comfort. I will not comply in advance, handing over my voice to make a liar feel like a truth teller. I am not that 8-year-old boy on the staircase anymore. I am the man they were terrified I’d become.

You have a lie you’ve been living. Don’t pretend that you don't. Don’t hide behind it, or make excuses for why it still exists. My dearest radical, who put that lie in your mouth? Who told you that you had to believe it? Perhaps you didn’t have an abusive father, or church, or school system. Perhaps your skin color wasn’t the thing they used against you. But it was something. Who profits from you believing the lie? How much longer will you allow them to decide what your narrative is?

I demand you take back your truth. Stand with me, and reject the lie. If you don’t own your story, they will tell it however THEY see fit. So speak. Speak now, speak in front of friends, in front of family, in front of enemies. Speak alone. Even if the room goes quiet. Hell, especially then.

Love Always,

Your Comrade,

Jared Moses

What is the lie you are fighting to not build your life around? Are you tired of performing to fit into someone else’s version of the story? Ready to reclaim your own voice? ‘TELL IT ANYWAY’ is an 8-week online group storytelling workshop that guides you through identifying the story the world taught you not to tell, excavating your truth, and shaping it into a message that resonates deeply. Because if you want to build something that makes a real difference — a brand, a book, a business, a movement — your honest, human story is the key.

We only have 1 seat left for our October pilot cohort. Join our waitlist for free to learn how to Tell It Anyway.