The truth is, it’s not the universe we don’t trust, it’s ourselves. And maybe, at times, with good reason. That’s the uncomfortable part. We can be our own unreliable narrators, telling little stories that aren’t quite true, stories born of fear, of old wounds, of things we never really faced.
What unsettles us isn’t the vastness of the universe, but the uncertainty of our own choices within it, the chance we might falter, fail, or simply not be enough.
At some point, though, we have to meet ourselves honestly. Not harshly, just truthfully. We have to notice that inner doubting Thomas when they turn up and set them gently aside, like a friend who means well but doesn’t see the whole picture.
The universe owes us nothing. Not certainty, not comfort. But it does give us space, space to try, to stumble, to learn, to grow. And if we can trust ourselves, even a little, perhaps trusting the universe will follow.
The truth is, it’s not the universe we don’t trust, it’s ourselves. And maybe, at times, with good reason. That’s the uncomfortable part. We can be our own unreliable narrators, telling little stories that aren’t quite true, stories born of fear, of old wounds, of things we never really faced.
What unsettles us isn’t the vastness of the universe, but the uncertainty of our own choices within it, the chance we might falter, fail, or simply not be enough.
At some point, though, we have to meet ourselves honestly. Not harshly, just truthfully. We have to notice that inner doubting Thomas when they turn up and set them gently aside, like a friend who means well but doesn’t see the whole picture.
The universe owes us nothing. Not certainty, not comfort. But it does give us space, space to try, to stumble, to learn, to grow. And if we can trust ourselves, even a little, perhaps trusting the universe will follow.