I’ve trusted people too quickly. Too easily, and I’ve told them far too much. It’s never had huge consequences, but more than once it’s left me feeling uncomfortable.
And there have been other times in my life when I didn’t just lock myself up in a fortress. I built several fortified walls, dug a moat round the outside, and nobody was getting in.
Seneca wrote about both of those people nearly two thousand years ago. His friend Lucilius had sent him a letter by the hand of a man he called a friend, then warned Seneca in the same letter not to tell this man anything that mattered. Seneca picked up on it straight away. If you don’t trust someone the way you trust yourself, why call them a friend? And he’s very clear about the order it should happen in.
When friendship is settled, you must trust; before friendship is formed, you must pass judgment.
Ponder for a long time whether you shall admit a given person to your friendship; but when you have decided to admit him, welcome him with all your heart and soul. Speak as boldly with him as with yourself.
Seneca, Moral Letters to Lucilius, Letter 3, translated by Richard M. Gummere (1917)
Most of us run it the other way round. We let people in quickly, then spend years quietly checking up on them. Seneca even names my two habits. He says it’s equally faulty to trust everyone and to trust no one.
Why I think we need a moat
So where does that leave me? I reckon we probably do need a moat. A sense check. Something people have to cross before we open up fully, whether we’re conscious of it or not.
Because trust is a strange animal. It can take a lifetime to build and a moment to break. I often think of it like a pristine sheet of white paper. It’s perfect, and yet in one moment you can screw it up in such a way that you never, ever get it back to what it used to be.
I’ve been the person who broke trust, and I’ve had trust broken on me. I’ve learned from both.
Eight hours at a mentor’s house
The person it took me longest to trust is a mentor of mine. He’s the person who knows me inside out. I hide nothing from him, or at least I don’t feel I need to.
The first time I really open up to him, I’m sat in his house for about eight hours before I get to the things I actually want to say. We’ve known each other for quite a while by now. We’ve had plenty of detailed, in depth conversations. But there are different levels of bare all, and this is the deepest one. I’m about to share things I never thought I’d tell another human being, and I know I need to say them right now, in this moment. Even trusting him, even knowing I have to open up, it still takes most of the day to reach the right level of trust. Layer by layer.
And the crazy thing? The more I open up, the more connected we turn out to be. Lots of “Me too.” Lots of “Oh, you did that? You’re not the only one.” Some of my deepest, darkest secrets start to feel a little bit more normal than they ever had to me.
I’m glad I took my time with him. I think that’s part of why I’m happy to talk about this stuff now. When one person goes first, it gets a bit safer for the next person to say what’s really going on.
Trust works like a magnet
Seneca has another line I love: “Regard him as loyal, and you will make him loyal.” That’s been my experience, and it goes both ways. When we let people in and hold them close, they do the same. When someone lets me be their confidant, I can be that for them, and they can be that for me.
Trust is almost like a magnet. When it’s there it pulls you closer, and when you break it, it pushes away almost immediately. Loyalty breeds loyalty. When someone’s in your corner and they’ve got your back, most people want to give that back.
I read Adam Grant’s book Give and Take recently. He talks about people being givers, takers or matchers. The takers probably aren’t the ones I want to trust. The matchers get the same trust they give me. But the givers, the people who go the extra mile and ask for nothing in exchange, are the ones I trust the most.
I suspect I’ve been all three at different times in my life. I’d rather be the giver, though. The person who contributes. The person who acts from a place of love rather than a place of fear.
One mouth, two ears
Worries and concerns are human. Everyone has them. There’s that cliché that a problem shared is a problem halved. I don’t know if telling someone actually halves it, but I definitely think it releases some of the pressure.
What I’ve noticed is that when we share a problem, we often aren’t asking anyone to solve it. We don’t want advice. We just need to get it out of ourselves.
The people I trust the most know when all they’re supposed to do is listen. They don’t jump in with an opinion or tell me how to fix it. If people want your advice, they normally ask for it. If they want your input on something deep, they’ll normally tell you.
Being a trusted friend means remembering you’ve got one mouth and two ears, and using them in that ratio. Listening fully. Being present, sensing the things that aren’t being said, and letting someone know you’ve got their back.
And if you’re carrying a worry on your own right now, maybe it’s time you found the person who’ll just listen.
