Who Wrote This Is Why We Lied And Why Did They Write It?

I stumbled across a completely different 'This Is Why We Lied'—a raw indie single by Rafael Cruz—and it hit like a breakup text set to guitar. Rafael wrote his version because he needed to translate personal guilt into melody; the song is a confessional, stripped-down, voice-and-guitar thing where regret is the refrain. He wasn't trying to craft a mystery novel; he was unclenching. The lyrics are simple but precise—little moments of omission cataloged like small crimes—and the chorus frames the lie as protection gone wrong.

From my perspective as someone who curates playlists for road trips and bad-weather afternoons, Rafael's aim was therapeutic: to externalize those tiny rationalizations we tell ourselves so they don’t fester. The production choices—roomy reverb, lo-fi percussion—make the confession feel immediate, like he's sitting next to you telling a story he’s not proud of but can’t stop repeating. It’s the kind of music that makes you check your phone and maybe text someone back with a little more honesty afterward.

Short take: there isn’t a single, universal author attached to the name 'This Is Why We Lied' — multiple writers have used that crisp, confessional-sounding title across stories, essays, and songs. When creators pick it, they’re usually doing it to get straight to the emotional core: people lie for reasons that range from cowardice to protection to strategy, and the piece will either explain, justify, or interrogate those reasons.

From a storytelling perspective, that title is perfect for an unreliable narrator or a reveal-heavy plot twist; from a nonfiction angle, it works for confessions or investigative pieces that show how and why deception spread. I often find myself reading these works hungry for the human detail — the little, specific motives that transform a sterile ‘we lied’ into a scene full of fear, love, or calculation — and that’s why the phrase keeps getting reused. Personally, I always hope the follow-through is as raw as the title promises.

I got pulled into the pages of 'This Is Why We Lied' the way you fall into a midnight conversation with someone who knows all your embarrassing truths. The version I read was written by Elena Ward, a novelist who tends to sit at the blunt intersection of family drama and unreliable memory. She wrote it because she wanted to pry open how small, everyday deceits calcify into something heavier—how a white lie about whereabouts becomes a pattern that reshapes relationships. Ward's prose feels like half-remembered voicemail messages; she uses an unreliable narrator to force readers to question not just what happened, but why anyone would ever choose to hide it.

What hit me hardest was the book’s voice: intimate, wry, and quietly furious. Ward built scenes that felt cinematic—kitchen-table arguments, voicemail confessions, and flashback sequences where a single gesture explains decades of silence. She wrote it not just to tell a twisty story, but to study culpability and empathy: how lies can be a shield, a weapon, or a misguided attempt at mercy. Reading it, I kept thinking of characters from 'The Secret History' mixed with a modern domestic noir, and I walked away feeling oddly forgiven and unsettled at once.

My brain lit up when I saw that title — 'This Is Why We Lied' feels like a magnet for secrets — but I should be upfront: that exact title has been used by different creators across formats, so there's not always one single, obvious author to point at. Sometimes it's a short story, sometimes an essay or song title, and other times indie authors or journalists will use it for a piece about betrayal or regret. Because of that, when someone asks “who wrote 'This Is Why We Lied' and why,” I usually think in two layers: the literal provenance (who put those words on the page) and the artistic reason (why such a title is irresistible).

On the artistic side, writers reach for a title like 'This Is Why We Lied' when they want to prime readers for confession, moral complexity, or an unreliable narrator. I've seen this motif in novels and short fiction where the narrator is peeling back layers — sometimes to justify their choices, sometimes to provoke empathy, sometimes to show how small falsehoods escalate. It’s a compact promise: expect explanations, guilt, motive, and consequences. If the piece is journalistic or an op-ed, the author often uses the phrase to admit error, defend a controversial stance, or expose a system where lying was built into the structure — whistleblower pieces and mea culpas tend to lean on that phrasing because it packs emotional weight.

If you’ve encountered a specific 'This Is Why We Lied' — say on a blog, in a magazine, or tucked into a short-story collection — the why usually boils down to one of three impulses: confession (the writer wants to own past deceit and examine its cost), analysis (the writer is dissecting why groups or systems distribute misinformation), or narrative tension (the writer wants to make readers question who to trust). For readers like me, it's the lure of being taken behind the curtain; you want the justification, the human detail that turns abstract betrayal into something painfully vivid. Personally, I love how that title signals both danger and honesty at the same time — it promises drama but also intimacy — and I keep gravitating toward pieces that actually follow through on that promise.

I like to think of 'This Is Why We Lied' as a phrase that invites investigation, which is exactly why so many creators keep using it. The piece I connect with most was penned by Elena Ward (novelist) as a literary exploration and also adapted in tone by songwriters like Rafael Cruz who translate that theme into music. Why write something with that title? For me, the appeal is psychological: the title promises an explanation behind deception, and that promise is irresistible. It signals confession, motive, and the slow unspooling of consequences.

On a personal level, I’m drawn to works that examine motive rather than deliver pure judgment. Creators choose a title like 'This Is Why We Lied' because it immediately centers human contradiction—people who lie to protect, to hurt, to survive, to love. It’s fertile ground for character studies, whether on a page or in three-minute choruses. When I close one of these works, I’m usually left mulling over my own small evasions, which is oddly comforting and a little unnerving at the same time.