You probably know the old tale of The Emperor’s New Clothes. The emperor, vain and eager to impress, hires two swindlers who claim to weave a fabric so fine it’s invisible to anyone unfit for their position. They present him with nothing, and rather than admit they see nothing, he – and everyone around him – praises the beauty of the garments.
Some people want the clothes to be real so badly that their minds actually fill in the image. Others know they see nothing but pretend otherwise because the risk of being the lone dissenting voice feels too high.
And then, a child blurts out the truth: “But he’s not wearing anything at all.”
We usually tell this story as if it’s about vanity or honesty. But it also reveals something deeper: how fragile perception is, how powerful social conformity can be, and how far we’ll go to protect our worldview. Psychologists have a name for this tendency to see what we want to see and defend it at all costs: “motivated reasoning.”
I’ve lived this dynamic in my own life. My first marriage was not good. Neither of us was happy, but I would have done anything and everything to stay together. I lost pieces of myself in that attempt. I lost touch with friends because he didn’t like them. I did the activities he liked, even if I didn’t enjoy them, and gave up the things that once brought me joy. I shape-shifted into someone I barely recognized, trading away bits of who I am just to keep the marriage intact.
I didn’t question the things he told me about where he was or what he was doing, even when I didn’t entirely believe them. I wanted to believe all the beautiful words we said to each other on our wedding day. I convinced myself to see what wasn’t there and to ignore the truths I feared. It was as if invisible garments were holding us together.
I was so invested in the illusion that it took me a full day to connect the dots – his constant communication with a woman in another state, his recent trip there, and the painful reality of his affair. I didn’t want to believe it, so my mind delayed the truth, protecting me from what I wasn’t ready to see. That day let me go from “there’s an invisible garment holding us together” to the naked and ugly truth. We separated for a couple of months as we both processed where we were and what we wanted. I still wanted to be married, but I didn’t want to live under illusion anymore. I remember saying, “I’d rather be confronted with truth that hurts than to live a lie.”
The therapy and soul work that followed was life-changing – at least for me. Two years later, when I discovered he was lying and cheating again, my marriage ended. Painful as that was, the commitment to truth over illusion had already taken root in me, and it guided the way forward.
The first lesson therapy taught me was to love myself. I’m still a work in progress, but one who now knows that wholeness matters more than illusion. I can look at that experience now through the lens of the three loves I often talk about.
Love for self meant reclaiming my own wholeness instead of shape-shifting to keep the marriage intact.
Love for others meant refusing to collude in deception, even though I still longed for the relationship to work.
Love for the Infinite meant trusting that living honestly, even through heartbreak, would keep me aligned with a deeper current of love and integrity.
The emperor’s delusions don’t just belong to fairy tales or broken marriages. They echo in every corner of life. We change what we see. We ignore what’s inconvenient. We hold on to partial truths when fuller ones would demand too much of us. In relationships. In culture. In politics.
We saw it when people insisted Trump’s 2017 inauguration crowd was bigger than Obama’s – even with side-by-side photos telling a different story. For some, the need to believe the story outweighed what their eyes could plainly see. The “crowd” became as real to them as the emperor’s invisible clothes.
We saw it with lead paint and leaded gasoline in the 1970s and 1980s. The evidence of harm was clear, but industries insisted it was safe. Fixing the problem – from redesigning engines to gas pumps – was costly and inconvenient. Some chose not to look too closely until the tides of change carried everyone forward.
And we’re seeing it now with climate change. The evidence is overwhelming – melting glaciers, stronger storms, rising seas – yet some still don’t see it, or won’t admit they do, because acknowledging it would demand change in the way we live. Admitting it also means pulling a thread that unravels the credibility of those who spread the misinformation in the first place. Yet ignoring it leaves us unprepared – without the infrastructure, solutions, or resilience we’ll need for what’s ahead.
In each case, it’s the emperor’s clothes all over again: some seeing what isn’t there, some refusing to see what is. And just like in the story, whole crowds go along with the illusion because the risk of standing apart feels greater than the risk of believing a lie.
Facing the truth often hurts in the moment, but denying it hurts for far longer. Denial brings long-term harm, while honesty, although painful at first, opens the door to healing, resilience, and flourishing. Just like in the story, one brave voice can lift the veil of illusion from many.
This is where the Three Loves matter most. Love for self gives us the courage to face truth, even when it hurts. Love for others asks us not to stay silent when illusions cause harm, even when it’s uncomfortable, giving us the courage to speak out. Love for the Infinite reminds us that truth and love belong together, that choosing love means refusing to live a lie.
The child in the parable didn’t offer a prettier illusion. They simply named what was real: “He’s not wearing anything at all.”
Sometimes love calls us to do the same – to name the truth others fear, resolution to speak what matters, and to trust that when illusions fall away, love will still remain.
So I ask you: What truth is tugging at you? What doubts or inner nudges have you been ignoring?
Facing the truth is rarely easy. It can sting. It can cost. But illusion costs more. Honesty may feel like loss, but it’s also the soil where love takes root.
In the bright, healing light of truth, we don’t just see clearly … we grow more love.
Joni Miller, Ph.D., is a writer, researcher, spiritual coach, and speaker who uses her knowledge, education, and love of all things spiritual to help spiritual wanderers find a place they can call home, navigating by the light of Love. www.SpiritualGeography.net
Photo by Tim Mossholder: https://www.pexels.com/photo/black-hawk-soaring-3213357/
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