Trust and the Rituals of Fear
Trust is like taking that first step into an ice bath – there's that heart-stopping moment when your body screams to retreat. I remember my first time: three minutes that felt like three lifetimes, fighting the instinct to jump out while my monkey mind insist I should do it another time. Yet I stayed in, breath by breath, because I remembered the purpose of the exercise — to confront the fear, to linger in the discomfort. That act taught me something crucial: the instinct to flee diminishes when you trust that you can endure. Each following attempt became less daunting, as I came to understand the process itself — learning to let go of control. Over time, the experience became a form of symbolic renewal, a ritual for shedding habitual fear and embracing presence in life.
Positive change begins with trust, yet, in systems built to test our sanity, trust can feel about as fragile as a soufflé in an earthquake. We’re stuck with institutions that seem to fear change more than a cat fears bathwater, defending themselves with policies that pile on like lead-filled life jackets — meant to protect from imaginary sharks but drowning what's left of our freedom. Last week, I commented on Charles Eisenstein's Substack essay, "Trusted Disclosure Agreement", which explored how our reliance on legal agreements often masks a deeper crisis of trust. His reflections prompted me to think about the many times I experienced this firsthand.
At the VC firm where I worked, in countless interactions with tech startups. An NDA was a routine — I signed it, asked for a signature in return, and rarely questioned its purpose beyond the appearance of professionalism. Gradually, NDAs started to feel more like rituals of distrust, signaling compliance with artificial norms of self-protection and control. It was part of the performance — having someone sign on the dotted line, as though it automatically set a serious tone for the conversation, a way to say, 'We’re talking money, and this is very important'.
After reading Charles Eisenstein's article, I immediately thought of Adam Curtis's documentary "Can't Get You Out of My Head". In the first part titled "Bloodshed on Wolf Mountain," Curtis illustrates how movements inspired by ideals of liberation often succumbed to internal paranoia and distrust. He argues that once distrust permeates a system, it becomes self-sustaining, leading institutions to focus more on asserting authority than fostering genuine empowerment, thereby eroding their legitimacy. In contrast, unconditional trust works like is a revolutionary act that breaks the cycle. Trust encourages shared accountability and requires vulnerability — a willingness to engage openly without resorting to protective measures.
Curtis’s documentary portrays trust — or rather its erosion — as a root cause of systemic decay. Once fear and suspicion take hold, they fracture any shared vision of possibility, transforming ideals into vehicles of restraint. Yet trust, in its purest form, holds a mirror to that pattern. It dares us to lean in the fragility of human promises rather than the rigidity of institutional power. This is also where personal principles become essential. They are not abstractions; they are acts of resistance against fear-driven conformity, guiding us to take creative responsibility for how we live and relate.
In thinking about trust as a principle, I invite you to reflect on where fear has disguised itself as professionalism in your life, and consider which conversations might unfold, what relationships might flourish, if trust, not control, guided your work more? This isn’t a simple exercise — it demands both bravery and discernment — but perhaps positive change begins with principles that challenge us to confront fear and embrace openness, despite the obstacles.
Principles like trust grow in practice, shaping how we live and connect. If this piece sparked anything for you, take a moment to explore your own principles or share this post with someone who might find it meaningful. And if you’d like to keep the conversation going, email me ("prickly" at "oxhe dot art") — I’d love to hear your thoughts.