“We are more often betrayed by our weaknesses than by the malice of others.”
La Rochefoucauld
Living a Life Others Can Trust
Imagine if the person who knows you best—a spouse, a dear friend, or a family member—were asked to measure your trustworthiness on a scale from one to ten. What number do you think they would choose? And if that person were known for speaking plainly, without flattery or softening the truth, how would their honest answer settle in your spirit?
It’s not a comfortable thought. It’s a question that engenders growth to maturity.
In a world where confidence in others is fragile and easily lost, trust has become one of the rarest treasures. To be called trustworthy is not mere kindness—it is a declaration about the kind of person you are. Every deep relationship rests on this foundation, and when it crumbles, what often remains is ache, separation, and quiet grief. The psalmist understood the power of what we say when he prayed, “Set a guard over my mouth, Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips.” (Psalm 141:3) Words, especially those spoken in secrecy or in anger, can either protect or devastate a soul.
Across cultures, betrayal has many names, but the Japanese word uragiri carries haunting clarity. It means “to cut from behind.” The picture is striking; you walk forward, unguarded, because you believe the one behind you is keeping watch. Yet instead of protecting you, they wound you. This kind of harm shows up everywhere—in families, churches, friendships, and workplaces. It appears in whispered conversations, in twisted truths, in confidences exposed for the sake of power or attention.
Often, what hurts most is not only the betrayal itself, but the silence that surrounds it—the absence of any chance to explain or defend. There is a unique cruelty in being misrepresented when you are not present to speak. Psalm 41 gives words to that ache:
“My enemies speak with malice…
My visitor utters lies;
then goes out and spreads them…
They say, ‘He will never rise again.’” (Psalm 41:5–8)
These ancient sorrows feel remarkably close to home.
Still, betrayal is not the end of the story. Healing remains possible. Hope still stands.
One of the most powerful choices we can make is to become the very person on whom we long to rely. A person who treats another’s secrets as sacred ground. Someone whose integrity does not depend on being warned, “Don’t tell anyone.” Someone who chooses restraint over rumour, kindness over curiosity, faithfulness over attention.
There are people in my own past who never truly came to know me—not because I withdrew, but because trust had not yet been earned. And that is a quiet truth of wisdom: not every heart is safe to hold your story. We are not called to close ourselves off to love, but neither are we called to offer our deepest parts to those who would not protect them. Love requires both courage and discernment.
Trustworthiness is not weakness. It is strength—built through honesty, humility, and the discipline to guard what does not belong to us. Those who live this way earn more than admiration from others; they earn peace within themselves. They rest without secrets. They speak without double meaning. They love without fear of being false because betrayal is not in their nature.
So, if that question unsettles you—What number would they give me? —do not turn away from the discomfort. Let it refine you, not shame you. Let it draw you deeper into grace, into growth, and into the steady shaping of a trustworthy life less you become lonely and without companions.
Because a life built on trust is gentler. It is truer. And it looks a great deal like Christ.
All verses from the BSB Bible.
Image by Copilot