I've been thinking about those moments when we trust someone easily.

Someone tells us their story, and we believe them. Someone makes a promise, and we take them at their word. Someone tells us they can help, and we trust that they can.

And then, sometimes, we're let down.

This just happened to me—while I was practicing trust, no less.

Last Friday, a man knocked on my door. He told me about the personal struggles he'd been through and how he was trying to get back on his feet, selling magazines to make money.

It was hot out, so I gave him some water.

We talked for about twenty minutes. I bought magazines I didn't need. I Venmo'd him money. He gave me a receipt. We even called the person he said was his supervisor.

I walked away feeling good.

I had listened. I had helped. I had trusted.

Here's the thing about that: it's taken me a long time to learn how to say no in situations like this.

I used to say yes to almost everyone—hear their story, feel their need, want to help—until I was giving away more money and energy than I had to give.

Eventually, I learned a different kind of compassion. One that included myself.

Now, when someone stops me on the street or comes to my door, I listen, thank them, and tell them I'll think about it before I decide.

This time, I didn't do that.

I just trusted.

When he left, something made me look at the receipt again. I looked up the company.

It was a scam.

My first reaction was the familiar spiral:

I can't believe I fell for this.

How could I have been so trusting?

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Then I started asking myself what this actually means for how I practice trust.

Does it mean I should trust people less?

No.

I still believe people are worthy of compassion. I still want to hear people's stories. I still want to believe people can change and do good.

But I think it means getting more discerning about what I give my trust to.

Discernment isn't the opposite of trust. It's part of it.

Trusting someone doesn't mean believing everything they say.

It means listening while staying connected to yourself.

And that's where I found the real question underneath this.

I have a practice for exactly this situation: pause, listen, decide later.

I know it works because I built it precisely because I used to give away too much.

But this time I skipped it.

Not because the scam was unusually convincing, but because it was hot outside, he told a compelling story, and twenty minutes of conversation made saying no feel rude.

And somewhere in those twenty minutes, something happened.

I lost myself.

I became so focused on his story, his struggles, and what he needed that I stopped checking in with myself.

What did I need?

What did I think?

Did I actually want to buy the magazines?

Did I actually want to give him money?

Was this something I felt good about giving, or was I responding to his need?

I didn't ask myself.

I was listening to him, but I wasn't listening to me.

And I think that's an important distinction.

The pause didn't fail.

I just didn't reach for it.

And when I didn't, I lost contact with myself for a moment.

That's what I want to remember from this—not that I shouldn't trust people, but that trusting others requires me to stay connected to myself, too.

The danger wasn't really that I trusted him.

It was that I stopped checking in with myself before I decided anything.

There's a Buddhist teaching here, too: pain is part of being human, but we can create additional suffering when we argue with what has already happened.

I lost money.

That happened.

But my mind wanted to add:

This shouldn't have happened.

I should have known.

People can't be trusted.

That's where the suffering multiplies—not necessarily in the loss itself, but in the story I tell about what should have happened instead.

I can simply say:

This is what happened.

And then learn.

I can trust people and be more discerning.

I can have compassion and have boundaries.

I can believe in people's goodness without giving everyone access to my time, money, or energy.

And I can trust myself to notice—including noticing when I've quietly stopped doing the thing that protects me.

So this week, I'm asking myself:

Where am I trusting someone else more than I'm trusting myself?

And:

Where has a practice I built for good reason quietly slipped—without my noticing?