I want to trust you, but I don't

 

Trust is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life, and I mean that fully, even with God.

Trusting God wasn't a one-time decision for me. It was and still is a daily action. A choice I had to make in my hardest seasons, when nothing made sense, and the weight of it all felt unbearable. But I'll tell you this: God showed up. In ways I cannot deny. In ways that still take my breath away when I think about them. He is trustworthy. That I know.

But people? That's where it gets complicated.

I love deeply. I give a lot. And yes, I have been hurt more than I care to count. I have been guarded. Tainted. Shattered, even. There have been seasons where trust felt less like a bridge and more like a wound. Where the very act of opening my heart felt like handing someone a weapon.

And yet  I continue to trust. Not blindly. Not without wisdom. But I continue.

If you've ever been there, you know exactly what I mean. And if you're there right now, I see you. I'm not writing this as someone who has fully overcome. I'm writing this as someone who is still in the process and on the table. God has healed so many places in my heart. Deep places. Tender places I didn't even know were broken until He gently put His finger on them. And I am grateful for every single one of those moments of healing.

But He's not done yet. He's still digging deeper. Still inviting me to trust Him more. Still asking me to see the people in my life, not through the lens of my pain, but through His. And that? That is the harder work. Because seeing people through God's lens means extending grace when everything in me wants to protect myself. It means staying open when closing feels safer. It means believing the best when my history has taught me to brace for the worst.

That's where I am. Still being healed. Still being shaped. Still learning to trust God first, and then others, one courageous, faith-filled step at a time.

I'm sure you've been there too.

You didn't become guarded because you're broken. You became guarded because you were brave enough to love, and it cost you something.

I've been there. I understand it more than I wish I did. Because I know exactly why I became guarded. It wasn't something I chose consciously or planned. It was simply what happened after being hurt. afterpain. After enough moments that taught my heart it needed to be more careful.

To trust is to be vulnerable. To be exposed. And when you've opened yourself up and had that openness used against you, your heart takes note. It remembers. And the next time someone gets close, something in you whispers: not too much. not too fast. Protect yourself this time.

And the struggle to let people in? It's real. Because trusting costs something. It costs your heart.

But here's what I keep coming back to underneath all of it, beneath every wall and every wound, we are all just human. And every human heart wants the same thing. To love and to be loved. To care and to be cared for. To protect and to be protected. That longing doesn't go away just because we've been hurt. If anything, it grows deeper. Because we know now what it feels like when it's missing.

That's not a weakness. That's one of the most beautifully human things about us.

And that's exactly what I saw when our CR group decided to use this as a Bible study, a circle of people who understood that longing deeply because they had all paid the price of broken trust, too.

What happened in that room surprised me. The conversations got real, fast. Deep reflections started surfacing stories, wounds, and quiet admissions that don't usually see the light of day. Because here's what we discovered sitting together in that circle: every single one of us had been touched by broken trust. None of us was untouched. None of us was as healed as we thought.

And Lysa captures exactly why in one of the most piercing lines of the book, "Broken trust complicates every bit of the parts of love that should be comforting." When I read that aloud to our group, the room went quiet. Because we all felt it. The hug that should feel safe but doesn't quite land. The "I love you" that should bring peace, but instead raises your guard. The hand extended in kindness that you hesitate to take, not because you don't want to, but because you've learned that open hands can sometimes hurt you.

From the very first chapter, her words had a way of uncovering what we'd each tucked quietly away, the doubts, the walls, the wounds we thought we'd already dealt with. We weren't just reading it. We were sitting with it. Praying through it. And slowly, page by page, letting it do its work.

As Lysa writes, "Trust is both a gift and a process." That sentence stopped me cold. Because I had been treating trust like a light switch, either fully on or completely off. Either I trust you or I don't. Either I'm open, or I'm closed.

But she's right. It's a process. And I'm still in it.

A gift, because when trust is present, it's one of the most beautiful things we can offer another person. It says: I see you. I choose you. I'm willing to be known by you.

But a process because some of us are still mid-rebuild. Still sifting through the rubble of what broke. Still asking God, quietly in the in-between hours: Can I trust You? Even now? Even after this?

I've asked that question more times than I can count. And I think God is patient enough to hold it with me.

One of the things Lysa expresses so beautifully is this: every relationship carries risk. Every single one. To love is to become vulnerable, to hand someone a piece of your heart, and to hope they handle it with care. There are no guarantees. There is no love without the possibility of loss.

But that does not mean trust is given blindly. And this is where the book gave me real permission to exhale.

Trust is not something we owe everyone simply because they ask for it. It is something that must be earned. Rebuilt slowly, through consistent action, through honesty, through the patient accumulation of small moments that say: I am safe. You can count on me.

I used to feel guilty for not trusting more quickly. Like my hesitation was a spiritual failure. But God never asks us to be reckless with our hearts. He asks us to be good stewards of them.

"Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it."PROVERBS 4:23 (NIV)

Guarding your heart is not the same as closing it. Boundaries are not walls of bitterness; they are acts of wisdom. They are the loving lines we draw that say: this is what I can offer, and this is what I need in return. Setting a boundary isn't a failure of love. It is often the most faithful thing we can do.

Wisdom knows the difference between building walls that imprison and building boundaries that protect.

One of the things this book stirred in me is something I've had to learn the hard way: words alone don't restore safety. Patterns do.

I've been on the receiving end of beautiful promises that didn't hold. And I've learned that my heart doesn't heal from what someone says. It heals from what someone consistently does. Over time. Without being asked. Repeated evidence is what teaches a wounded heart that it's safe to open again. That's not cynicism. That's wisdom.

And that's where discernment comes in. For a long time, I confused discernment with distrust, like paying attention to someone's behavior meant I was being uncharitable or faithless. But this book reminded me of something I had almost forgotten: discernment is something God has been strengthening within me all along. Not to make me suspicious or closed off, but to help me see clearly. To choose a connection wisely instead of impulsively. Not to slam the door, but to open it carefully, watching to see if what's on the other side is worthy of what's inside.

That's not closing your heart. That's stewarding it well.

I'm still learning that difference. Some days I get it right. Other days, the walls go up before I even realize it. But I'm learning slowly, imperfectly,  that trust doesn't have to be all or nothing. I am allowed to let people in gradually. I am allowed to ask for consistency before I extend vulnerability. I am allowed to hold both hope and caution in the same hand.

And with God? I am learning that I can be completely honest. I can say, "I want to trust You, but I'm struggling right now." That's not faithlessness. That's the most real kind of prayer I know.

Choosing to trust again is one of the most courageous things you will ever do. It doesn't mean you forget what happened. It doesn't mean you pretend it didn't hurt. It means you make a decision, eyes wide open, heart still tender, to take one step forward anyway.

At the end of all of this,  the hurt, the walls, the healing, the learning here is what I want you to know: you don't have to find that courage on your own.

God is not asking you to trust perfectly. He is inviting you to trust Him. To bring your broken pieces, your guarded heart, your unanswered questions, and let Him be the one who holds it all while you find your footing again. Not the reckless kind of trust. Not the blind kind. But the deep, rooted, eyes-open kind that only comes from walking closely with God.

That invitation is open today. Right now. Wherever you are in your journey.

You were not made to carry this alone. And you don't have to.

"I want to trust you, but I don't."

Maybe that's not the end of the story.

For all of us, it's the most honest place to start.

Written with a heart still learning · Inspired by I Want to Trust You, But I Don't by Lysa TerKeurst. Did this speak to your heart? Please grab a copy of the book (here)