TRUST as VERB
My relationship with trust has always been complicated. During my years spent in a polyamorous dynamic I met a lot of people, and I let a lot of people in who didn’t deserve to be there. I was so trusting and gullible, believing that people were honest, truthful, forthcoming, and even sincere . . . until I was shattered. Death by a thousand cuts, along with a few giant sledgehammer blows. I was continuously let down, misled, lied to, and betrayed. I trusted people so much that I was overriding my own nervous system because I was so unaware of what safety felt like. I felt out of control. My heart broken was broken into a million pieces. After that, shutting down felt like the only sane choice.
Why risk that pain again? It is a question I ask myself over and over again. It is a wall that was erected from experience, fear, and skepticism.
I don’t want to live behind a wall. I remember how sweet intimacy can be, how alive it makes me feel. I want that feeling of freedom that trust can bring. So I’m choosing a different path: to open again, but this time I’m doing it with more care and intention. This time I’ll let trust grow from attention and deliberate tenderness, not from naiveté. I’m also training my body to recognize what safety feels like.
I’m learning to attend to two things: how my body responds, and how safe the other person seems. I notice what feels off, or what feels relaxing. I watch whether the other person shows up with presence, consistency, and respect for limits (their own, as well as mine), and I notice how they respond to me and the energy I bring. Intimacy is worth the risk, but it’s not worth being reckless.
I start by listening to my body. A hollow chest, shallow breath, or a tight throat tells me something important. I take brief check-ins, “How does this feel in my body?” before I say yes to greater vulnerability. I also keep a short, clear list of what safety looks like for me: reliability, honest communication, reciprocal curiosity, and respect for boundaries. That list becomes a quiet filter for who I let in. I watch for small boundary crossings. This could be something like the dismissive comment, the pressure for immediacy, the repeated ignoring of a limit. Then, I name them to myself first: “That felt rushed.” Then, when needed, I name them out loud, calmly.
Boundaries don’t have to be harsh. I practice saying simple, loving truths: “I’m not comfortable with that,” “I need more time,” or “Please check in with me before sharing that.” And I offer alternatives: “I can’t do X, but I can do Y.” Boundaries are a gift. Think of them as invitations to clearer connection, not walls.
I’m also learning to let trust build slowly. I share small things and watch for care in return. If someone proves trustworthy, I share more. If patterns don’t align with my safety list, I pause and I give myself permission to step back. This is the work I teach in my coaching: tuning into somatic cues, defining personal safety, recognizing early red flags, and practicing boundary language that holds both compassion and firmness. We rehearse the conversations that feel hard and create a paced plan for testing vulnerability so intimacy can grow without sacrificing wellbeing.
Coaching offers structure, scripts, and accountability as you relearn how to trust, starting with trusting yourself. If this resonates, I offer a 4-week “Trust Reboot” to help you identify safety markers and practice gradual vulnerability, plus single-session labs for specific boundary conversations. Reply to this email or book a free 15-minute consult and we’ll map out what safety looks like for you and how to open without giving yourself away.
Trust isn’t a reckless leap or an impenetrable fortress. It can be a series of small, wise steps grounded in the body, guided by clear boundaries, and held by people who earn it. I’d love to help you take those steps.
