For 30 Years, I was Lying to Myself

For 30 years, I was lying to myself.

Not to the world.
Not to the people close to me.
To myself.

I lied every time “my arm didn’t matter.”
I lied every time I convinced myself I was “fine.”
I lied every time I pretended I didn’t care.
I lied every time I tried to outrun the thing everyone could already see.

I was born without the lower half of my right arm; something I tried to minimize, outrun, and overcompensate for my entire life.

The regrettable truth?
Most of the opposition I faced wasn’t real.
It was invented.

Like tales of Michael Jordan manufacturing disrespect from his opposition…it was mostly fake.

It was built in my own head, brick by brick, from scraps of old insults, sideways glances, childhood mockery, questions about my manhood, and memories I replayed until they hardened into belief.

I lived behind that false front like it was armor; built to protect me from the incoming pain.

If someone noticed my arm, I landed the punchline first.
If I sensed judgment, I closed myself off.
If a conversation got too close, I rerouted it.
If a situation made me feel exposed, I overcompensated.

I had to constantly prove, not to them, but to me, that I was on par, or better than, everyone else.

Comparing me to the “disabled community,” was as ridiculous as comparing apples to futons.

I thought if I could out-perform everyone, out-work everyone, and out-muscle everyone, then the truth wouldn’t matter.

The reality is, the truth always matters, and it always waits.

Here’s the part I never wanted to admit:

I didn’t just build the facade, I became it.

The facade hardened into identity.
My arrogance wasn’t an act anymore.
It was the only gear I had left.

I’d convinced myself I was stronger than everyone else.
Better than everyone else.
Beyond everyone else.

Not because I truly believed it, but because believing anything less felt dangerous.

It felt like exposure.
It felt like the world might finally see the insecurity I was desperately and unknowingly trying to outrun.

My bravado became my shelter.
My cockiness became my camouflage.
My swagger became my shield.

I wasn’t avoiding the world anymore.
I was avoiding myself.

Behind every accomplishment, there was pressure.
Behind every win, there was fear.
Behind every compliment, there was suspicion.

I couldn’t accept praise without scanning for insult.
I couldn’t feel accepted without assuming judgment.
I couldn’t relax without bracing for impact.

It was tiresome. I hated it. But, I did it anyway.

That’s what delay looks like when it’s disguised as strength.

Delay isn’t always procrastination.

Sometimes delay is performance, bravado and pretending you’re unaffected.

Then on a snowy December morning nearly 14 years ago, the facade cracked in one instant.

Not in a stadium at the Paralympics.
Not under the pressure of expectations.
Not after a loss.

It happened in the silence of a hospital room.

I was sitting in a chair, holding my newborn son for the very first time.

His tiny weight rested on my chest. His breathing slow and perfect.
His face, untouched by the world, became a mirror I wasn’t ready for.

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In that moment, his expression reflected something back at me I could no longer deny.

If I kept pretending I wasn’t different, I’d be teaching him that his truth should be hidden too.

If I passed on the bravado, he’d inherit the insecurity behind it.

If I kept living the lie, he’d grow up thinking honesty was optional.

His face, innocent and unfiltered, broke the facade I didn’t realize I’d built so thick.

It hit me instantly.
My lie had been teaching me to delay.

Delay acceptance.
Delay identity.
Delay truth.
Delay healing.

I couldn’t hand that lie to him. He deserved better than to inherit my disguise.

That morning, in a quiet room, before my son, wife and presumably God, the delay ended.

Not because I was ready, but because he was here and reflecting my soul.

That’s when I became someone new.

Not overnight. Not perfectly. But intentionally.

I stopped performing strength and started building it.

I stopped hiding my arm and started owning my story. Deliberately showing its capabilities in a show of defiance.

I stopped delaying the truth and started living it out loud.

That’s where “Delay is the Damage” was born. Not as a tagline, but as a reckoning.

I realized that every day I waited to be honest, was a day I taught myself that hiding was safer than healing.

Every moment I delayed was a moment I’d lost forever. Had I carried on, my son would have accepted that truth for himself.

So, I made a choice. To stop lying. To stop performing. To stop delaying the man I was supposed to become.

And now? Now I help others do the same.

If you’re reading this and something inside you is stirring, that’s not coincidence. That’s recognition.

You’ve been delaying something too.

The cost? It’s compounding every single day.

But here’s the good news, the moment you stop delaying is the moment everything changes.

That’s what comes next.

That’s where we’re headed on this journey.

What Comes Next

What comes next isn’t theory.
It isn’t clichés.
It isn’t another motivational speech.

The next drops will walk straight into the places where delay hides:

The moments you avoid.
The stories you rewrite.
The comfort you defend.
The truth you soften.
The systems you refuse to build.
The people you choose (or avoid).
The pain that grows teeth when you ignore it.

This project is the unmasking.
Not of the world.
Of yourself.

Each release will peel back a layer:

The Lie of Later.
Start Ugly.
Finish Honest.
Avoidance Has Interest.
The Circle Is the Standard.
Blame Kills Progress.
You Don’t Need a Break. You Need a System.
The Mirror Test.

Not as chapters, as experiences.
As mirrors.

Today was the exposure to my truth.
Tomorrow is the work.

Move Early. Delay is the Damage

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Josh Cinnamo is a Paralympic world champion shot-putter, speaker, and writer who was born without the lower half of his right arm. He teaches movement over avoidance, truth over disguise, and the real cost of delay. This project is his living book — released as he lives it.