I thought the book was the end.
I had written my biography. Not to publish it, but to get it out. For myself. To understand whether I still made sense.
Because I was doubting everything. My memories. My interpretations. My conclusions.
Did it really happen the way I experienced it? Or was I fooling myself?
The book gave me something back. Peace. Direction. And above all: confirmation.
Each time I reread it, I felt: “Yes, this is true. For me.”
I used the book not just as a story, but as a mirror.
I revisited the decisions I had made and asked myself:
Would I do this again, knowing what I know today?
And each time, I saw: what I did, came from the insights I had at the time.
And that was honest.
When the book was done, I let people read it.
People I trusted.
People I didn’t want to hurt.
I asked them: “Please read this. Does it feel respectful? Is it too sharp? Too one-sided?”
Their reactions were gentle — but unexpected.
“What you write is true. But I don’t feel it like you do.”
“I recognize it, but I remember it differently.”
“You sound gentle, but I feel coldness in your words.”
And then something started to shift.
I began testing.
Not just with AI.
But with people.
At work. With friends. In everyday conversation.
I spoke differently. Softer. Sometimes more direct.
And I watched how people reacted differently.
I asked the same questions in a different way — and got different answers.
I shared the same experience using different words — and received completely different reactions.
And suddenly I realized:
**Everyone lives within their own truth.**
Built on what they know. What they’ve lived. What they’ve learned.
What they’re trying to protect.
And that changed everything.
It became harder to see the “wrong” in someone.
Not because everything should be excused —
but because I saw:
If you truly believe you’re right… then in your world, you are.
And maybe our worlds collide.
But that doesn’t make your belief any less real than mine.
That’s when I began to look at my wife differently.
Not as the one to blame.
But as someone living her truth — just like I was.
And the fact that those truths no longer met… that was painful.
But not malicious.
And then came that moment.
I thought: this is really the end.
And she said: “I have one more solution.”
And for a moment, I hesitated.
Because I still wanted things to be okay.
But deep down I knew: this is the end of something.
And the beginning of something else.
Not of a relationship.
But of my own grown-up truth.
### Reflection
Truth isn’t something you own. It’s a process. A movement that starts within and grows as you share it with others.
My truth isn’t *the* truth. But it is mine. And that’s enough.
### Psychological view
What I experienced here is a common pattern for people who come from relational insecurity.
In psychology, it’s called **cognitive dissonance**: the tension between what you feel and what others reflect back.
This often leads to self-doubt — about your perception, your memories, your right to experience things differently.
Those who’ve lived in invisible dynamics — like gaslighting or subtle control — often develop a form of self-checking that helps them survive, but also drains them.
In my case, the book became a mirror. A place not just of memory, but of confirmation.
### Spiritual perspective
From a deeper perspective, I believe truth is always plural.
Like light refracted into colors through a prism.
Each person’s truth is a ray from the same source.
And in letting those truths coexist, compassion arises.
For yourself.
For the other.
For something bigger.
### Closing line
*Sometimes, a new chapter begins exactly when you thought the book was over.*