Learning To Trust Again?
I remember the day a letter arrived at our house, telling us that yet another Australian AOG pastor had fallen from grace and had his credentials stripped away. I was 19 or 20, blissfully unaware of the complexities of the world around me.
I read the letter, aghast—sweet child that I was—then turned to my boyfriend (now husband) and said,
“At least I’ll never have to worry about this happening in my family.”
Fast forward ten years, and it did.
In fact, it had been happening in my family of origin (not between me and my husband) for decades, including around the time we recieved that letter. I had to do what I never imagined I would—stand in front of our congregation (because, yes, we were pastors then, working for my dad), look them in the eyes, and read out my own version of that letter. I had to explain what had been going on and what would happen next—all while still trying to figure it out myself in real time.
My confidence in my ability to read a situation, trust my own judgment, and discern good from bad was obliterated overnight. Feet, rug, gone. Mess. I never once believed or thought it was possible that my family would have such dark secrets attached to it.
I had considered myself an excellent judge of character. Privately, I often thought that if I were of a different ilk, I might have even called myself an energy reader.
Laughable.
My self-trust eroded instantly.
Have you ever been through something like that? Caught so off guard? Sure of how things would go—only to be proven completely wrong? SOmrthing happening right under your nose that you weren't aware of?
For me, what made it worse were the beliefs about trust, faith, and critical thinking that I had been raised with. Fundamentalism always demands total allegiance while withholding the balance of reason, integration, questions, and doubt. I was taught to trust without verifying, that faith meant unquestioned loyalty, and that doubting was a sign of weakness. Critical thinking was labeled woldliness, or smart assery, or ego.
Rebuilding trust has been slow, holy, hard work. Learning to trust myself again. Learning to trust others. Figuring out what trust looks like, what it feels like when it’s healthy, and what it does when it’s not. Sometimes, I get so in my head about trust that I become paralyzed—unable to actually do the work of trusting or being trusted.
And if I zoom out to the wider world—the political landscape, religious institutions, social movements—how the fook are any of us meant to trust anyone in a position of leadership? How do we figure out who to trust, when to trust, how much trust to give, and where to draw the line? And how do we trust ourselves to choose the right people, the right path, the right beliefs?
Well. One might say we begin by challenging our entire framework for what is “right” and “wrong.”
But that’s an exercise for another day.
For now, let’s start with trust itself.
When trust has been abused by fundamentalism and twisted by narcissists, the work of unlearning, relearning, and healing is sacred and necessary. It’s why I’m spending an entire month exploring this theme in The Practice Co—week by week, crafting four different seven-part series around the fluid nature of trust.
Because that’s the thing about trust. It’s fluid.
Half our struggles with trust come from treating it as if it’s solid—as if it’s all or nothing, on or off, full or empty. But trust is a liquid. It shifts and moves, rises and falls, expands and contracts.
It changes shape even with the same person, depending on the situation, the context, and the season. You can work with it, increase it, decrease it, try it, take it back, try again.
I’ve been wrestling with trust again recently. So I’m leaning in. Watching, listening, learning.
Wanna come along for the ride?
L xo
here’s an exert from the app:
Trust is often framed as a virtue, something we should give freely and without hesitation. But when trust is treated as blind faith—an expectation of unquestioning belief—it becomes something else entirely. It becomes a tool for control.
Many of us were raised in environments where trust and obedience were interchangeable. This was my experience in Australian Pentecostalism during the 80s and 90s. Whether it was a religious leader, a parent, or an institution, we were expected to trust without proof, without doubt, without hesitation. Questioning authority was seen as rebellion. Discomfort was dismissed as a lack of faith. And if we struggled to trust? Well, that was framed as a personal failing, not a sign that something might actually be wrong.
Trust should be earned, not demanded. And if trust requires you to silence your gut instincts, ignore red flags, or surrender your autonomy—it’s not trust. It’s coercion.
If you have been taught that trust means suppressing your own instincts, ignoring your own wisdom, or following someone else’s lead without question, it is okay to unlearn that. Trust is not meant to make you smaller—it is meant to create a sense of safety, clarity, and connection.
You are allowed to ask questions.
You are allowed to need proof.
You are allowed to withhold trust when something feels off.
Trust is not about faith in someone else—it is about faith in your own discernment. It's also not absolute. You can trust a person in a specific thing, and not trust the same person in another. You can test it. Work at it. Massage it. You can increase it or dial it back. It doesn't have to be all or nothing. You do not have to prove your trust by handing over your autonomy. You get to choose who is worthy of your trust—and who isn’t.
JOIN US IN THE APP THIS WEEK, and for the whole month of Feb as we explore trust and wrestle it to the ground.
CONSIDER THIS: “We can only trust people to be who they have shown us they are.” — Cheryl Strayed.