I’m Learning to Trust Again

Vulnerability: a verb [I’m trying]; an adjective [I’m learning to be].

I’ve come to understand that I’m slow to trust. Not with everything—but when it comes to the things that matter deeply to me.

This past month, I missed out on an important opportunity. I went to sleep late, woke up early, gathered all aspects of my identity, and still missed it. Not because of anything I could control, but because of a recommendation I’d been waiting on for months. One letter short, and suddenly, my application was null and void.

I’m not bitter, but I am bummed. When I woke up this morning, my horoscope read: “Your anger is valid.” I don’t like to be angry. I don’t like to be sad or feel let down. But when I do, I tend to sit in it—and reflect.

I’m learning that trust doesn’t come easily, especially when you’ve spent years convincing yourself that independence is the only way to survive. There’s this quiet voice in me that says, “If I can do it on my own, I should.” But lately, I’ve been realizing how much that mindset isolates me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to trust—not just people, but life itself. Faith, in many ways, is a form of trust. It’s believing in something unseen, in unseen hands holding you up when everything feels uncertain. It’s also learning how to respond without fear or shame when I’m let down, or when promises go unfulfilled.

Brené Brown writes, “Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up when you can’t control the outcome.” That’s what trust feels like to me—an uncertainty. A black abyss where I show up stripped, battered, and bruised, without control. Forcing myself to believe that people won’t always let me fall, but also knowing that sometimes they will.

That thought has been sitting with me. I’ve been trying to love the questions: Why is it so hard to let go of control? Why do I equate vulnerability with weakness? Why do I assume others will fail me before they even have the chance to show up?

Spirituality, for me, has been about surrender—learning that not everything has to be proven or planned, and also knowing when to let go. Toni Morrison said, “You wanna fly, you got to give up the thing that weighs you down.” There’s a beauty in releasing the need to know and leaning into the unknown.

Life’s been shifting lately.

I’m still figuring out what it means to open my hands instead of clenching my fists. To ask for help without shame. To trust that people can love me without conditions and that I don’t have to earn their loyalty or care through perfection.

That I deserve it simply because I exist.

Some days, my trust feels fragile, like an autumn leaf feathering off the branch. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe trust isn’t something you master; maybe it’s something you practice, over and over again.

Because every time I reach out, every time I choose faith over fear, I’m saying:

I’m learning.

I’m growing.

I’m still here.