Let’s be honest. Every one of us has made a promise and, three seconds later, thought, “Why on earth did I say that?” It’s a universal human experience, like hunting for the second sock in the morning or craving junk food at one a.m.

We like to split the world of promises into black and white: break it and you’re “bad,” keep it and you’re “good.” But reality, as usual, is far messier and much more entertaining. In truth, we end up dealing with two personal monsters that we craft with our own hands.

Monster #1: The Zombie Promise (the one you broke)

A broken promise is your personal, pocket-sized zombie. At first, it’s just the corpse of your good reputation, but then it reanimates and starts chasing you.

It’s slow, dim, and can only groan one line on repeat: “Yooou prooomiiiised…” That zombie forces you to cross the street when you spot that person, to dodge their calls, and to invent stories about a sick grandma. It feeds on your energy, making your brain run in “excuse generator 24/7” mode.

It’s a classic pest. Like a mosquito in a dark room-non-lethal, but impossibly annoying at bedtime. You feel guilty, ashamed, restless. Yet there’s a silver lining: at least you know something is wrong. This zombie reeks, makes noise, and constantly waves its arms. It’s alive (well, undead), and you can do something about it: either finish it off (deliver what you promised) or torch it with the flamethrower of honesty (“I’m sorry, I messed up and didn’t do it”).

Monster #2: The Knight in Rusty Armor (the promise you kept but never wanted)

And here’s the craftier foe. It’s the promise you made out of politeness, fear, or the wish to seem better than you feel. You grit your teeth and you keep it. In that moment, you strap on a gleaming suit of armor. The crowd applauds. You’re the hero.

There’s just one hitch. You can’t actually live in that armor. It’s crushingly heavy. You can’t bend down to tie your shoes. Scratching your nose becomes a military operation. The metal chafes, squeaks, and seals you off from the real world. You stop being a living person and turn into a walking monument to your own decency. And statues, as we know, invite pigeons.

You kept the promise you gave your parents and stayed in the boring job. You stuck around because “you swore.” You execute the role you saddled yourself with to perfection. And the grand “reward” is apathy and a low, constant irritation with the world.

This monster doesn’t make noise. It stays silent. It simply replaces you with itself. Unlike the foul-smelling zombie, this knight smells of righteousness and hopelessness. It doesn’t bite; it hugs until you can’t breathe.

So here we stand in a dark room. On one side, the zombie of our guilt staggers toward us, moaning; on the other, the monument of our virtue looms without a sound. We spend a lifetime choosing whom to fight, whom to ignore, and whom to negotiate with.

But the point isn’t the battle. The point is finally noticing the price tag.

And when you see that price-truly, without bargaining or looking for someone to blame-the most interesting thing happens. Somewhere in the dark room, the switch clicks. The monsters don’t vanish, but for the first time you see their actual size.

And the most important part-you see the door.