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 familiar patterns, my established work, my sense of professional ground — began to dissolve beneath me.
For a moment, it felt as if the ground had disappeared beneath me. And yet, even then, something deeper continued to hold.
My first response was panic.
Sleepless nights.
A persistent knot in my stomach.
A mind racing, searching 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.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, something else began to happen.
In the moments when I stopped fighting the uncertainty — even briefly — I noticed that I was still here.
Still breathing.
Still standing.
Still capable of meeting what was in front of me.
Nothing externally had resolved yet. The future was unclear.
But internally, something was reorganizing.
My nervous system was learning that it did not need certainty in order to remain present.
And from that place, trust began to grow — not as a belief, but as an experience.
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.
We meet the unknown as we might stand before a blank canvas — curious, receptive, and willing to discover what wants to emerge.
This is the foundation of trust.
Trust is not built on certainty.
It is built on relationship — with ourselves and with the unfolding of life.
Trust does not mean we always know what to do.
It means we trust our capacity to listen.
To pause.
To return to ourselves when things feel unclear.
Over time, this becomes less effortful.
We stop searching for safety outside ourselves and begin to live from a deeper steadiness within.
A quiet knowing replaces constant vigilance.
Not because life has become predictable.
But because we have become more present.
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.
