Trusting what I already have.

I put two chairs together this week.

That probably doesn't sound like the beginning of a philosophy about trust, but stay with me.

They had been sitting in a box in my kitchen waiting for someone to put them together.

My husband. My son. Anyone, apparently, except me.

One morning, after everyone had left for work, I carried the box outside, brought my coffee onto the patio, and simply began.

Thirty-five minutes later, I had two perfectly sturdy chairs.

I sat there ridiculously pleased with myself, looking at them as though I'd just built the entire patio.

And I wondered:

What else am I waiting for someone, or something, to make me ready for?

It's a question that's been following me around lately.

Because I'm beginning to realize how much of my life has been shaped by trust.

And by my attempts to avoid needing it.

Sometimes that looks like rushing.

I push. I overprepare. I add more. I try to make something happen faster because I'm uncomfortable allowing it to unfold on its own.

Other times, it looks exactly the opposite.

I hesitate. I research. I wait. I convince myself I need another credential, another plan, another sign that I'm ready.

I've always thought of those as two different tendencies.

I'm beginning to think they're the same.

Both are attempts to create certainty before I'm willing to trust.

Trusting other people

I've seen this at work recently.

I've had the pleasure of orienting a nurse I've worked with in the past to pre-op. She's a seasoned nurse, but this environment was new to her, and I could feel my familiar instincts creeping in.

Help.

Anticipate.

Explain.

Fix.

Stay close.

Make sure.

Those can all be qualities of a good teacher.

But I started noticing moments when she didn't actually need me to step in.

Maybe I needed to step in.

Maybe helping her had become a way for me to make sure everything went exactly as I thought it should.

So I consciously began stepping back.

I reminded myself:

Trust yourself as a teacher.
Trust her as a nurse.
Trust that she will ask when she needs you.

And let her fly.

A few nights later, I sat in an audience watching my daughter music-direct Godspell.

And I saw it again.

My daughter is incredibly talented, but what struck me that night wasn't simply her talent.

It was what she brought out of everyone else.

She taught. She encouraged. She challenged. She gave direction.

And then she stepped back enough to allow other people to make it their own.

She wasn't creating the magic on that stage.

She was creating the conditions in which other people's magic could emerge.

And suddenly I understood why watching her felt so familiar.

It's how I've always wanted to practice nursing.

People come to us in vulnerable moments. They're frightened. They're hurting. Sometimes illness or surgery has temporarily made them forget what their own bodies and their own spirits are capable of.

I can't create their strength for them.

But I can create enough safety for them to be vulnerable.

I can listen. Teach. Advocate. Reassure. Hold a hand.

I can ask what they're getting healthy for.

I can help them recognize their resources and remind them of strength they may temporarily have forgotten.

Then I can support them while they reclaim it.

Creating safety and creating dependence are not the same thing.

Maybe some of the best support we can offer another person is believing in their capability enough not to do everything for them.

When people ask where my daughter gets what she has, I'm certainly proud of her talent.

But there's something I'm even prouder to think we might share.

We see the magic in people.

And perhaps our job isn't to create it.

Maybe our job is to help people feel safe enough, loved enough, and capable enough to discover it for themselves.

Trusting the process

Meanwhile, flour and water have apparently decided to teach me the same lesson.

When I first decided to make sourdough, I approached it the way I approach many things I'm excited about:

I went all in.

I somehow had multiple starters going before I'd baked one loaf.

I fed them. Watched them. Researched them. Smelled them. Worried about them.

Had they doubled?

Were they too hungry?

Was that smell okay?

Had I missed the peak?

I hovered over fermenting flour like a first-time mother checking whether her newborn was still breathing.

Then I finally baked the bread.

And it worked.

More importantly, I learned.

So when I decided this week to try cinnamon swirl sourdough, I noticed something had changed.

I didn't know exactly how it would turn out.

I just didn't need to know anymore.

I knew enough to try.

Maybe that's the difference between certainty and confidence.

Certainty says: I know how this will turn out.

Confidence says: I don't know how this will turn out, but I trust myself enough to find out.

Trusting the path

Then this morning, I found myself barefoot on a grassy patch overlooking the ocean and a lighthouse.

It was August 8. Our seaside yoga practice began at 8:08 a.m., and our teacher invited us to think about releasing what felt stuck and setting intentions for our lives.

She gave each of us a handmade card and asked us to number it one through eight.

Before every intention, we wrote:

Thank you.

We were to write what we wanted for our lives in the present tense, as though it were already ours.

And what struck me was that I didn't hesitate.

I knew.

I wrote about being intentional about the life I am building.

Being strong, able and settled in my body.

Being focused, confident and unafraid.

Trust.

Purpose.

Enough money for freedom and generosity.

Authentic connection with my husband and children.

And finally:

Thank you. I am known as making others feel loved and capable.

I smiled.

Legacy.

There they were.

The threads of A Well-Built Life had found their way onto that little handmade card without me deliberately putting them there.

Health.

Purpose.

Freedom.

Connection.

Legacy.

I wasn't sitting at my desk trying to create a mission statement.

I was sitting in the grass.

And I already knew.

Before choosing a card to close the practice, we were asked to silently ask a question.

Mine came immediately:

What do I need to learn today?

The card I chose was Water.

It spoke of meeting difficulty with confidence and determination and finding a way forward when obstacles appear.

But one sentence stayed with me:

Regardless of the outcome, you will grow from the experience.

There it was again.

Trust.

Not a promise that everything will work.

Not assurance that every decision I make will be right.

Not certainty that every loaf will rise, every seedling will grow or every path I choose will take me where I thought I was going.

Something better.

I don't have to know the outcome to trust myself with the experience.

Maybe that's what these ordinary little moments have been trying to teach me.

The chairs:

Trust myself enough to begin.

The nurse I'm orienting and the daughter I watched from the audience:

Trust other people enough to step back.

The cinnamon bread:

Trust the process enough to stop controlling it.

And a morning beside the ocean:

Trust life enough not to require a guaranteed outcome.

I'm beginning to understand that trust isn't passive.

It doesn't mean doing nothing.

It means knowing when I've done enough.

When I've prepared enough.

When I've tended enough.

When I've helped enough.

And when the next step isn't more effort.

It's release.

I don't need to force what needs time.

And I don't need to postpone what only requires courage.

Some things I plant won't grow.

Some bread won't rise.

Some ideas won't work.

Some decisions will lead me somewhere completely different from where I intended to go.

But perhaps a well-built life isn't one in which we always get it right.

Maybe it's one in which we become increasingly willing to participate fully in our own lives without demanding certainty first.

Prepare.
Tend.
Support.
Begin.
Release.
Trust.

Because regardless of the outcome, I will grow from the experience.

And perhaps I don't need nearly as much as I've spent my life believing I do.

Maybe I already have enough to begin.

Maybe I always did.

Where does trust show up in your life? In this week’s newsletter, I dive in a bit deeper in how this has shown up for me.

Until next time,

Keep tending to yourself and what matters in your life,

Diane