6d
Throughout my journey as a child and as an adult, I have come to realize that trust is not a simplistic or singular decision, but a process. It’s not merely about extending trust to others, but about confronting my inner doubts; both about people and about the plan for my life. I’ve learned that my skepticism and reluctance to trust stem from wounds of the past, and from my fear of what might happen if I let go of control. Trust, I now see, isn’t blind; it’s informed by wisdom, discernment, and boundaries.
There were moments when I questioned not just others, but also the divine, wondering why painful experiences were allowed to happen, and why I was left feeling unprotected as a child and later in life as I defended into young adulthood. The uncertainty bred doubt in my own ability to discern who or what was safe. Yet, what I have gained is an understanding that trust begins not with others, but with a foundational trust in a higher purpose, even when the path forward seems obscure.
I learned that trust is not something to be given indiscriminately or withheld entirely. It is an invitation to vulnerability, tempered by the understanding that discernment is a gift, honed through experience. It has become clear to me that trust is less about guarantees of safety or certainty and more about growth through relational and spiritual stretching. There is wisdom in establishing boundaries, not as a form of self-preservation, but as an act of respect for both myself and those around me. Boundaries do not signify the absence of trust, but rather the preservation of healthy, intentional trust.
The deepest lesson, however, is the recognition that trust requires a recalibration of my heart. It is not my role to control or to predict the actions of others or the unfolding of life’s events, but to trust that each step I take, though uncertain, moves me closer to healing. I now understand that trust is a slow dance between wisdom and vulnerability, one that I must navigate with an open yet discerning heart. The fear that held me captive no longer defines my capacity to trust. Instead, trust becomes a daily practice of releasing control, setting healthy limits, and believing that I am safe within divine protection, even when circumstances remain unclear.
—
In childhood’s darkest corners,
Fear lived behind the front door,
A silence I could not question,
But learned not to trust.
Friends, once anchors,
Became driftwood in shallow waters,
Loyalty lost like whispers,
And I abandoned floating alone.
In a failed marriage, trust was a mirror
Shattered by pretense,
Each shard reflecting a version of myself
That I no longer recognized.
Relationships, at times, felt like betrayal,
A wound wrapped in promises,
Yet in moments of intimacy,
I found trust’s delicate bloom.
Now, trust is a flickering light,
Sometimes dim, sometimes strong,
A compass not for others,
But for the faith I rebuild within myself.
— Sincerely, Boris
There were moments when I questioned not just others, but also the divine, wondering why painful experiences were allowed to happen, and why I was left feeling unprotected as a child and later in life as I defended into young adulthood. The uncertainty bred doubt in my own ability to discern who or what was safe. Yet, what I have gained is an understanding that trust begins not with others, but with a foundational trust in a higher purpose, even when the path forward seems obscure.
I learned that trust is not something to be given indiscriminately or withheld entirely. It is an invitation to vulnerability, tempered by the understanding that discernment is a gift, honed through experience. It has become clear to me that trust is less about guarantees of safety or certainty and more about growth through relational and spiritual stretching. There is wisdom in establishing boundaries, not as a form of self-preservation, but as an act of respect for both myself and those around me. Boundaries do not signify the absence of trust, but rather the preservation of healthy, intentional trust.
The deepest lesson, however, is the recognition that trust requires a recalibration of my heart. It is not my role to control or to predict the actions of others or the unfolding of life’s events, but to trust that each step I take, though uncertain, moves me closer to healing. I now understand that trust is a slow dance between wisdom and vulnerability, one that I must navigate with an open yet discerning heart. The fear that held me captive no longer defines my capacity to trust. Instead, trust becomes a daily practice of releasing control, setting healthy limits, and believing that I am safe within divine protection, even when circumstances remain unclear.
—
In childhood’s darkest corners,
Fear lived behind the front door,
A silence I could not question,
But learned not to trust.
Friends, once anchors,
Became driftwood in shallow waters,
Loyalty lost like whispers,
And I abandoned floating alone.
In a failed marriage, trust was a mirror
Shattered by pretense,
Each shard reflecting a version of myself
That I no longer recognized.
Relationships, at times, felt like betrayal,
A wound wrapped in promises,
Yet in moments of intimacy,
I found trust’s delicate bloom.
Now, trust is a flickering light,
Sometimes dim, sometimes strong,
A compass not for others,
But for the faith I rebuild within myself.
— Sincerely, Boris
