Trust Is an Inside Job
Finding steadiness when the ground beneath you shifts
Trust is rarely the headline issue when someone comes to see me.
They’re usually focused on something external — a next chapter, a professional or personal crossroads, a decision about which path to take, whether to change careers, step more fully into leadership, or end a relationship.
They want to know:
Is it safe to move forward?
Will it work?
Will I get what I’m hoping for?
Yet what I’ve learned to listen for beneath all of that is a quieter inquiry…
Do I trust myself?
And do I trust life enough to stay open when the path is uncertain?
Most people assume trust will come when the external world becomes more predictable.
When the decision is clearer.
When the outcome feels guaranteed.
When other people behave in reliable ways.
But trust does not begin outside of us.
Trust is an inside job.
It lives in our capacity to stay present with ourselves.
To remain receptive.
To stay connected to the quiet intelligence of the body, even when something difficult or unexpected is unfolding.
Trust does not remove uncertainty.
It changes our relationship to it.
It doesn’t mean things feel easy. Trust does not remove challenge, loss, or vulnerability.
It simply means that, in the midst of whatever arises, we are not abandoning ourselves.
We stay.
And in staying, we begin to discover that trust was never something we had to manufacture — it was something that emerges naturally when we are present enough to listen, grounded enough to feel, and open enough to meet life as it unfolds.
Sometimes, this becomes most visible in the moments when the ground beneath us begins to shift.
A few years ago, the stability I had quietly relied on — my established work, my familiar patterns, my sense of professional ground and income — began to dissolve beneath me.
I had been coaching corporate clients and running leadership programs for several years, working virtually after a series of moves that led me away from my long-term practice in California. The corporate work was interesting, fulfilling, and seemingly stable. It gave me a sense of steadiness as I was beginning a new chapter in Colorado.
Then, within a period of four months, it unraveled. Corporate budget cuts to leadership development programs. One company closing its doors entirely.
My chest felt tight, as though there wasn’t enough air in the room.
My first reaction was panic.
Sleep became difficult.
A persistent knot settled in my stomach.
My mind searched for certainty — for a plan, for reassurance, for anything that would help me feel in control again.
I wanted solid ground back beneath my feet.
I wanted security.
I wanted proof that I would be okay.
Yet there was also a quieter part of me that knew acting from panic would only narrow what was possible. Trying to force safety would not create something aligned or sustainable.
Striving for stability began to feel like squeezing myself into something that didn’t fully fit — all for a sense of temporary security. And after losing that seeming security blanket, I was reminded of something deeper: nothing is truly stable. The nature of life is change. And when I soften instead of contract, I see more possibilities.
So I did something counterintuitive.
I slowed down.
Instead of scrambling to secure the next opportunity, I turned inward. I focused on regulating my nervous system. On walking, breathing, listening. On finding my ground internally before searching for it externally.
At first, it felt uncomfortable — almost irresponsible. My anxious mind wanted action. My body felt tight and contracted.
But in the moments when I stopped fighting the uncertainty — even briefly — I noticed something important.
I was still here. I was breathing.
I was standing.
I was capable of meeting what was in front of me.
As I stayed with myself, something internally began to reorganize.
My anxiety softened.
My curiosity returned.
My thinking became clearer.
I began to feel an inner steadiness — not the bravado of overriding my anxiety, but a grounded confidence.
I could hear my own voice again. Not the voice of fear, but a remembrance of my gifts, my work, and what I genuinely love — supporting and guiding others through transition.
From that place, enthusiasm began to fuel me as I oriented toward creating work that resonated more deeply, rather than simply recreating what had been.
My nervous system was learning it did not need certainty to remain here — or to orient toward what was next.
And from that place, a deeper trust resurfaced — not as a concept, but as an embodied knowing.
This is how trust develops.
Not through guarantees, but through experience.
Each time we stay present with something difficult instead of abandoning ourselves, something strengthens within us.
Our nervous system learns:
I can handle this.
When the nervous system is regulated — even partially — everything shifts.
We see more clearly.
We listen more deeply.
We respond from steadiness instead of reacting from fear.
We can meet the unknown like a leader sitting at the conference table without all the answers, yet grounded enough to listen, discern, and take the next step.
And at the same time, something creative opens. Like an artist might stand before a blank canvas, paintbrush in hand—open, curious, and receptive to what wants to emerge. Painting stroke by stroke.
We meet the unknown as a living canvas — open, attentive, and willing to participate in what is becoming
— the courage to co-create with what is unfolding.
Trust does not arise from certainty.
It is built on relationship — with ourselves, and with life as it unfolds.
Trust does not mean we always know what to do.
It means trusting our capacity to notice, to pause, to return to ourselves when uncertainty arises.
Gradually, this becomes less effortful.
We stop seeking security outside ourselves, and begin living from the steady presence of our own body and mind.
A quiet knowing settles in, replacing constant vigilance. Not because life has become certain,
but because we have become more available to ourselves.
We meet the unknown as a living canvas — open, attentive, and willing to participate in what is becoming.
A simple practice
The next time something feels uncertain, pause.
Feel your feet on the ground.
Take a slow breath.
Notice what is actually here — not the story about what might happen, but this moment.
You may still feel fear.
That’s okay.
Trust grows each time you remember you do not have to leave yourself to meet the unknown.
Trust is not something we find outside ourselves, but something we rediscover as we remember the ground beneath us was never truly gone.
