Trust is often one of those things we don’t have to think about. I trust that my seatbelt will work in case of emergency. I trust that the roof above me will not fall. I trust that the sun will rise in the morning. Things get shadier when I trust the weather forecast, or the strength of a tree canopy to protect a birthday cake from a dousing, or the will of the people in a high stakes election process.
Trust is one of those strange things, that manages to be two polar opposites at the exact same time. Trust is easy, I can trust unquestioningly, as easily as I breathe in and out. But, if trust is broken, or we are broken, trust is difficult. Trust in the people around us, trust in the words of friends and strangers, and sometimes, hardest of all, trust in ourselves.
I’ve begun each day this week with writing, the same as I do every week. I’ve made some progress, form is being refined out of a decimated draft. I’m needing to trust myself, my gut, what I have learnt from writing regularly and with discipline these past few years. In this brutal editing process trust in myself is all, and it is hard.
The voice of doubt can scream so loudly. How can you ever drown it out? The doubting, judgemental, disbelieving voice that must be drowned by each of us; or how will we ever achieve anything? How will we dare to live rightly, to step out towards the dream and trust that if we fall and fail and flounder spectacularly, it will be worth it anyway?
I spent a long time believing I was dumb. Bottom table in infant school (despite my voracious reading habits), bottom half of year six. I was always terrified. I never spoke, was deeply shy and if I didn’t understand something, I never had the courage to say. Not dumb, just shy, unconfident, massively unsure and trying to survive without drawing attention to myself or getting shouted at. I always hated confrontation of any kind, even now, a dismissive tone or a raised voice is the easiest way to make me cry; should you ever wish too.
Low to middling in secondary school and sorted into third set for English – the ‘please God let some of these kids get a C’ set. Thankfully, this is when I got Mr Merifield. There are so many good teachers in my story, but there is only one Mr Merifield. Like all the best teachers he taught me so much more than what he was paid to teach me. He taught me lessons that have stayed with me, and that I have drawn on, my whole life. And, wow, he was funny!
I began to speak, to ask questions, to contribute my thoughts and the more I did that, the more I believed in myself. I remember, with joy, how it felt to walk into a room and have someone glad to see you, and eager to listen to what you had to say. It is no small thing, to listen to a child, to make them feel of worth. I bet there are hundreds of north-eastern kids whose lives are better because of his input. What a legacy.
On my final day at school, he signed my autograph book.
Trust in your abilities
Before I walked into his classroom I barely felt like I had any abilities, when I left; I was a different person. I had abilities, things only I could think and do and say; and I could trust them (I also got two A’s and could finally tell the difference between ‘there’ and ‘their’.). Would I be writing without his influence? I can’t say. Would I be different to who I am today? Undoubtedly.
Trust in your ability. Those are four of the words that help me drown out the doubting voice. A voice of kindness and encouragement, that gave me the car and the keys and the map to my own adventure. Sometimes I hardly need to think about them, at other times they are my mantra, repeated over and over until they overpower, again, that doubting voice.
What are your words? Words that vanquish the demons and let the light in? What are the lies you need to drown out before you can step forward and succeed, or fail, beautifully? You can share my words if you like?
Trust in your ability; now come and fail spectacularly with me.
internalkindness 