In truth there's trust

When I started to type 'trust', the letters t-r-u-t-h appeared instead. Truth's a powerful word that I usually shy from because it requires such conviction, and if there's anything I'm committed to, it's a dogmatic opposition to committing to much of anything. Conviction, a deep, core belief in something, though, requires a leap of faith. Trust. I've been thinking a lot about trust lately. I usually attach trust to a feeling of dependability between people. I also usually think about it from a vulnerability perspective, where one person worries about being able to depend on someone else. Recently, though, I've begun to think about trust from the trusted person's perspective and begun to realize how true it is that trust is a two-way street. On NPR Andrew Mwenda discussed the potential harm of foreign aid and questioned the enabling nature of these so-called "helping relationships." Money that finds its way to the hands of those waging war against African peoples is controlled by international donors dictating how and when monies are used, communicating a lack of trust in their recipients. As I related his words to my work as a social worker, I hoped to reflect on my experiences with developing mutual trust and also find some comfort. Lately, I've been questioning my ability to really effect any change in the lives of the students with whom I work. Each time I learn more about what other effective educators and social workers are doing, I'm reminded of how I can't teach or can't communicate well enough yet. Conceptually I can comprehend, recognize and describe the effects of current and historical racism in our school, and yet when I see it in front of me, I'm stuck. I don't know how to change what's so penetratingly present and deeply rooted. Each day feels like a missed opportunity. It's as if I can recognize what I'm not doing but lack the trust in mine and the students' abilities to make any difference. I've been here before. The self-doubt and desire to give up, move onto some other job is all too familiar. I usually rely on trying to puff myself up with positive self-talk or seek out additional gratifying feedback from colleagues. Honestly, though, the "you're doing a good job" thoughts only minimally and temporarily motivate me. At this point in my career, I have the theoretical knowledge. I have the clinical skills. Now I need to know what's holding me back. What is preventing me from feeling a deeper connection to my work? What is preventing me from feeling successful and effective and proud of what I'm doing with these students? How can I start harnessing my skills to capitalize on such opportunities to be effective at connecting to students when it matters? Watching crap TV, eating and drinking, and going out with my friends is leaving me feeling empty and avoiding any acknowledgment that this pattern is wearing on me. Instead of going out tonight, I've decided to stay in and give a little attention to what feels more true for me. I've been operating under a false sense that I'm trying to empower students by addressing important topics and being available for counseling. Too many times, though, I shy away from the underlying issues and the actions that would make me mean it when I say to a student, "I believe in you." When I try to protect students from a difficult topic, what I'm communicating is that I don't trust that they can handle it or that I can handle their reactions. When I plow through material, consciously or not, I'm avoiding the silence, not making space for their voices. Here's what I want to communicate instead: "I trust that you have the ability and willingness to execute your own power to determine and achieve your own truth." Saying this with conviction takes a certain amount of faith in the unknown, a future you can't possibly foresee. I understand more now than ever that some of that faith can't be communicated in words. It means taking an extra step, being vulnerable myself, to really deeply learn about the lives I'm afraid to know. It's as if I'm actually seeking to protect myself by avoiding feeling the depth of pain and hopelessness so that I can keep going. To really listen and learn would take a true shift in power. I can redefine my unidirectional approach to empowerment through my actions. I can't be afraid to ask questions, to go to someone's neighborhood, to make myself uncomfortable, to share my feelings openly and respectfully, and to talk about race when it impacts my relationships. To open myself up in this way would move us closer to achieving real mutual trust. Why, then, has it been so difficult to put into practice and felt easier to just walk away? I certainly have wondered more than once if I shouldn't just step aside, let someone else take over, preferably a person of color and even better a mother. I'm not so naive as to believe I'm the one that can save someone. In fact, the opposite is true. I can't save anyone. I can, however, connect to the part of me that trusts in my own ability to be a good listener that truly cares about generating kindness and respect and equal opportunity for all people regardless of any quality they may possess. When I reconnect to my own sense of self-trust, perhaps then I can truly trust those with whom I work. Ironically, for the past few years, I've been preoccupied with earning the students' and staff's trust. I felt constrained by my therapeutic boundaries and resented providers from the community, people of color who overstepped the lines I had to maintain. Without sharing my personal past, I secretly wanted to them to know that I had come from my own pain. If I speak my truth, it's that I wanted them to know that I'm smart enough or well-trained enough or young enough or woman enough to get it. What I missed in focusing on their trust in me, was that I had not stopped judging myself. How can they really trust me if I don't really trust me? Was I looking for belonging from them and then expecting them to feel a sense of belonging with each other? The challenge of facing inequality where I work is fertile ground for my own learning. My work is incredibly humbling. Each day truly is a gift, not a missed opportunity. I really don't want to run away from my job or hide in my own comfortable social circle. My time there doesn't feel finished. To walk away now would have its benefits, but I'm not ready to give up this chance just yet. In truth, there is trust. I have to trust that I can take on what really matters including injustice, not as a theoretical construct, but in its real form. I can take on my own emotional and psychological suffering and that of others without judgment or shame. I have to trust the world enough that I do belong wherever I go and likewise make space for others to belong. According to Brené Brown, we are all hard-wired for struggle, and I have to remind myself that I do not need to protect myself or the students from difficult emotions or topics. I can handle whatever is in front of me, and so can they. For a truly equal social context, we must invest in the development of mutual trust which hinges on mutual vulnerability. Regardless of nationality, political party, religious affiliation, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, physically ability, age, socioeconomic class or whatever other human distinction we all share in our need to feel that we're ok just the way we are. When I listen to emerging self-doubt, I can listen more deeply for the underlying self-conviction. This is not the time for patience or passivity. I can take my own advice I give to students: to seek out people and methods that help me connect to my truth and cultivate a deeper sense of self-trust (i.e. therapy, meditation, journaling, meaningful conversations, etc.) With such understanding on the experiential level, I seek to strengthen my faith in the presence of those same abilities of self-determination in each person I face. I haven't fully answered all of my questions, but I'm not sure that was my goal in raising them. I was, however, seeking comfort and reassurance that I matter in this work and doing so found a little more inspiration to stick with it. For centuries people have postulated about the existence or nature of truth. While I may believe that I can trust that certain things are always going be right and good, most of life remains impermanent and unpredictable. By continuing to ask questions, I strive to stay in touch with my vulnerability and find joy in the mystery. It's just a journey after all.