We’re used to hearing the phrase “plausible deniability” in politics—leaders insulating themselves from blame by ensuring there’s just enough ambiguity. But what if we all do something similar inside our own minds?
“Plausible deniability of the self” is my term for a strange but familiar human pattern: the subtle maintenance of ignorance about our own motives. It’s the internal equivalent of shredding documents or passing blame down the chain of command. Only instead of evading legal consequences, we’re evading ourselves.
We fragment. We compartmentalize. We perform. We lie to others, yes—but more often, we lie just enough to ourselves to keep the story intact. A story in which we’re the hero, the victim, the misunderstood genius, or at the very least, not the villain.
This isn’t always malicious. In fact, it’s often protective. Plausible deniability of the self allows us to continue functioning in a world that rarely rewards full transparency, even with ourselves. But it comes at a cost: the erosion of inner clarity. We become so skilled at playing ourselves that we forget it’s a game.
I’ve noticed this pattern in others, but also in myself. Especially in moments of social performance—where sincerity is filtered through layers of rehearsed affect. I catch myself defaulting to familiar tones, phrases, or even entire personas that feel safe. Authenticity becomes a moving target. I’m not being fake, exactly—but I’m certainly being… edited.
I’ve seen it play out in others too. In the way someone justifies their cruelty as honesty, or hides their self-interest behind altruism. The dissonance is often invisible to them, but glaring from the outside. And I try to stay aware that the same might be true of me—that I’m not exempt from the same circuitry just because I’m watching it.
And that’s the trick. We don’t have to lie outright to distort reality. All we need is a little ambiguity. Just enough to tell ourselves: “Well, maybe that wasn’t the reason. Maybe I really was trying to help. Maybe I really do believe that.”
Plausible deniability of the self is the ego’s legal department. It draws up contracts between truth and comfort, and we sign them with a shrug. There’s always some fine print we can fall back on when we feel exposed: a loophole here, a vague clause there. “Technically,” we weren’t lying. “Technically,” we meant well. The terms of the self are deliberately broad, with plenty of room for reinterpretation.
We draft these agreements early in life. Some are copied from others. Some are revised in crisis. They bind us to a self-image we can live with—even if it’s not entirely honest. And if reality starts pushing back? No problem. The legal team is already working on a new narrative, a new justification, a new clause.
But what happens when we stop? When we sit with the discomfort of being transparently ourselves—flawed, inconsistent, uncertain? It’s terrifying. And liberating. There’s a peace in dropping the performance, even if only internally. A quiet kind of rebellion against the need to be anything but real.
Of course, even this realization is at risk of being co-opted. The ego adapts. It loves a good redemption arc. So the work continues. Not to eradicate the ego, but to observe it. To listen when it whispers, “That’s not who we are,” and to gently reply, “Maybe it is.”
This isn’t a manifesto. It’s a mirror. Hold it up carefully. And see who looks away first.