The Lie That Changed Everything is a memoir that blends sharp humour, biting honesty, and painful recollections into a story that feels both chaotic and deeply human. Why was this an important book for you to write?

This book goes right back to the moment that shaped me—a childish lie I swore on my father’s life, followed by his cancer diagnosis. For years, I carried the belief that I had somehow killed him. That single moment of guilt became the thread that ran through my childhood and beyond, influencing how I saw myself, my family, and even my faith.​

Writing The Lie That Changed Everything was my way of holding that memory up to the light and finally making sense of it. But it’s not just about trauma—it’s about the absurdity of family life, the strange superstitions that guided us, and the humour that helped me survive. I wanted to show that even in chaos, there’s resilience and laughter, and that being human means carrying contradictions: grief and comedy, shame and love, darkness and light.

How did you decide what to include and leave out in your memoir?

That was one of the most complex parts of the process. Some of my family were opposed to me writing memoirs—both The Hate Game and The Lie That Changed Everything—because it’s difficult to face the dysfunction that runs through our family. But after years of working as a child protection social worker with hundreds of families, I know dysfunction is universal. The difference lies in whether we discuss it or keep it buried.​

I chose to write my truth, but I also left things out. Some situations were too private, too sensitive, or simply not mine to tell. Respect was a guiding principle. What’s on the page is my perspective—my memories, my emotions—rather than an exposé. My brother, who is nine years older, helped me fill in gaps from the early years, and between his input and my mother’s knack for remembering everything, I had a wealth of detail to draw from. I’ve been blessed—or cursed—with an elephant’s memory of my own, so much of it was already stored in my brain in glorious technicolour.​

In the end, I included what served the story, what illuminated the themes of guilt, resilience, and humour, and what felt authentic to share. A memoir isn’t the whole truth of a life—it’s the truth of a particular journey.

What was the most challenging part of writing your memoir, and what was the most rewarding?

The most challenging part was working through the trauma—breaking the silence I’d carried for decades. I hadn’t told a soul about the grief and guilt that shaped me. Fear and shame kept my story bottled up. Sitting down to write meant opening old wounds, but it also gave me a way to release them.​

The most rewarding part has been the liberation that followed. Over the years, I discovered that I could share painful stories and still make people laugh, even in the darkness. Writing allowed me to see my parents in a different light, too. I came to understand how their own trauma defined them, and that gave me compassion instead of just confusion.​

Ultimately, the memoir has helped me stop being defined by the same pain. I often say: hurt people hurt people; free people free people. Writing this book was my step into freedom.

What do you hope is one thing readers take away from your story?

I hope readers come away with the sense that it’s possible to carry both laughter and pain in the same story. Life is rarely one-dimensional—grief can sit beside humour, shame beside love, darkness beside resilience. For a long time, I thought my story was only about guilt and trauma, but writing showed me it was just as much about survival, absurdity, and even joy.​
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I was thrilled with one review that said, “If you enjoyed Angela’s Ashes, you’ll love The Lie That Changed Everything. My late mum’s favourite book of all time was Angela’s Ashes. To be compared with Frank McCourt’s work was very humbling, and my mum would be so chuffed to hear such a compliment.​

If readers realise they’re not alone in their chaos: that silence can be broken, that healing can happen through honesty, and that humour can be a lifeline—then the book has fulfilled its purpose.

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