Evolution has blessed creatures with many different kinds of protective gear.
Tigers have claws. Bulls have horns. Porcupines have sharp quills. Scorpions
have poison. Each creature has something that keeps it safe from harm.
And humans? Humans
have brains.
I like to think that
the human brain is our finest piece of protective equipment, the one that
allows us to assess risk, avoid danger, escape tricky situations, and decide
when to fight or flee. Our brains keep us safe, ensuring our survival not
through brute strength or venom, but through intuition and reason.
A fascinating
feature of the human brain is its ability to sense danger long before it
reaches us. It lets us read intentions, sense hostility, and know (somehow) when
something or someone isn’t quite what they seem. It’s an extraordinary kind of
radar, built from experience, instinct, and subtle cues we can’t even name.
But what happens
when that radar fails us?
What happens when
the very thing we rely on to keep us safe misfires?
That’s what
happened to me in the past four years. I met two people at work whom I trusted,
admired even. They seemed kind, supportive, and genuine, the sort of people you
think, finally, someone who gets me. I
let my guard down. I believed their words, their gestures, their friendship.
And for a while, everything felt easy and warm.
But then, almost
imperceptibly at first, little cracks began to appear. Words didn’t match
actions. Kindness felt conditional. I started to feel used: not valued, not
seen, but handled.
When the mask
finally slipped, I was shocked by how wrong I had been. Not just about them,
but about myself. I began to question everything: my intuition, my judgement,
even my ability to read people, something I’ve always taken pride in. How could
my instincts, usually so sharp, have failed me this badly?
Maybe that’s the
hardest part – not just losing trust in others, but losing trust in yourself.
I keep replaying
conversations in my head, wondering what signs I missed, what clues I ignored.
Did I want to believe in them so much that I overrode my own discomfort? Or had
I simply become too comfortable with the idea that I could always “tell” who someone
truly was?
And I shudder to
think what would happen if I’m wrong about the next person – when I am all
alone, in a foreign country yet again. That thought terrifies me more than the
betrayal itself. Because trust, once shaken, doesn’t just rebuild itself. It
hides, it hesitates, it second-guesses every smile, every kind word, every
invitation.
Perhaps that’s the
real lesson here. Trust is not a science. It’s not foolproof. People are
complex, and so are we. Sometimes, we meet versions of ourselves that are
tired, lonely, or simply too hopeful. And those versions can make mistakes.
But maybe – and I’m
still learning this the hard way – being wrong about people doesn’t make us
foolish. It just makes us human.
