.. trust

Had I known that trust would be the most difficult discipline to learn in my life, I would have armed myself with more patience, compassion, and openness before sending my soul back to earth.

Something I notice not only in myself but in my generation as well is how much we struggle to trust — to truly believe that others can care about us, about our art, our ideas, or even simply how we are doing. To believe that others are telling us the truth about who they are and the stories they share. And this works both ways: when we are getting to know someone, we must trust that they are showing us their true colours — and once they’ve done so, we must trust ourselves to make the right choices moving forward.

And yet, in the same breath, we somehow feel like one of the most naive generations. It’s a strange paradox: we trust too quickly where we shouldn’t, and withhold trust where it could actually change us. We cling to suspicion when letting go might free us, and we leap without looking into situations that leave us bruised.

Perhaps this is the contradiction of being young — to hover between doubt and faith, fear and surrender — never quite certain when to hold back and when to dive in. We are asked to trust not only the people in front of us but also ourselves: to trust that our instincts are not just paranoia, to trust that our longing is not just foolishness, to trust that even if we are wrong, the experience will shape us in ways we can’t yet see.Maybe this is why the universe keeps circling us through the same aches: heartbreak, uncertainty, disappointment. Not to punish us, but to teach us how to stand on unsteady ground. To remind us that trust is not about certainty at all — it is about choosing, despite the ghosts that linger, despite the stories that came before us, despite the what-ifs that echo in our minds when things feel too good to be true.

I recently felt a cleaving in my mind, as if all the questions about trust had broken open at once: is trust fear itself, or does it represent the absence of fear? I have often felt most afraid in the moments when I chose to trust — more afraid, even, than when I listened to suspicion. That is its own paradox. Maybe trust is not the absence of fear but the willingness to walk with it. To befriend it, so that fear does not make the choices for us but simply guides us, points us toward the places where we long most deeply.

And maybe that’s the lesson: that trust is our first sign we are learning how to love. Because to trust is to risk hurt, to risk loss, to risk disappointment — but it is also the only way to feel the fullness of love when it arrives. If it hurts us, it is because we dared to open our hearts. And if it teaches us, it is because we were willing to feel at all.

I know nothing about trust. Except that without it, love is impossible — and with it, even heartbreak becomes part of the story of how we learned to live with an open heart.