Why is trust so difficult?

Trust is a funny thing. It’s like a sliding door that you have a little bit of control of. You can hold that door closed for as long as you want. But as soon as you hit that button and the doors hiss open, you are powerless. Trust is painful and scary. Staring into somebody’s eyes you have to make that decision, and sometimes you have to make it in a split second. Am I going to trust you or not? Am I going to open up to you or not? Am I going to be vulnerable with you?

Or not?

There comes a time when you really have to let that door slide open and see what waits for you on the other side. It’s inevitable that every so often you will make a mistake and it will be a monster waiting out there. The door will pull back and the onslaught will take you by surprise. The force with which he throws himself at you will knock the air from your lungs. But you have been brave and you did it. You faced the tyrant out there and you are stronger for it. And next time you’re faced with something similar, you are a little more prepared.

A little more resilient.

But sometimes the doors will gracefully slide back and you will be faced with true love. You will be faced with compassion and kindness and the fear that you felt will be all but forgotten. The warm embrace will make it all better and the smell of sweet perfume will soothe your aching soul.

You have to open that door eventually. I know it’s scary, but life requires a forward motion. And love will heal all your wounds. And without trust there is no love.

Much Love,

Rachel xx

“We’ve never met”

“It’s funny,” he said, placing a cup of coffee down in front of me. “I swear that I know you.”

“But, we’ve never met,” I said, still shaking. I tried to lift the cup to my lips but it sloshed and scolded me.

“No,” he said. “That’s right. We’ve never met.”

He had helped me up off the floor after he had made my bike swerve on the icy road. Now he was buying me hot tea and trying to calm me down.

“But I feel like I know you in the future,” he said, staring out of the window. “Like I know you when we are eighty, and we have spent a lifetime together already. Do you get what I mean?”

“No,” I said.

I looked down at my cup on the table in front of me as I stirred in my sugar. I didn’t dare look up because I absolutely understood what he meant. It was the strangest of feelings, but it was undeniable. We were eighty and still sitting here, drinking our tea and laughing over photographs of our grandchildren.

It was a life that I needed to live. It was a life spent with him.