Trust Triangle

When Empathy Wears A Blindfold

Trust Triangle: A Tragicomedy in Three Acts

They say man doesn’t really want to be loved; he just wants to be understood. Well, let me tell you, I am a very “understandable” person—my language is empathy, my accent is compassion—but somehow, everyone around me seems to be wearing noise-canceling headphones. Misunderstood by many, doubted by most, and half-believed only by Lisa (and maybe Annie if she’s feeling generous), I’ve become a walking, talking trust experiment.

The trouble with me is that I trust too much. I mean, I trust like it’s a spiritual calling. For instance, once upon a time, there was a client who swore on their grandmother’s grave that payment would come “immediately after” I delivered my research. Like a faithful knight, I galloped into the battlefield of deadlines, completed the work, delivered it with a bow—and poof! They vanished into thin air. To this day, I believe they hold a Guinness World Record for the longest unpaid invoice in history. She didn’t just ghost me—she became the CEO of Ghosting Inc. Somewhere out there, she’s sipping lattes bought with my unpaid labor while I light candles hoping for her resurrection.

And it doesn’t stop there. Once, I promised a friend I’d help her with a problem. Noble, right? Except she didn’t believe me. She thought I was bluffing, maybe running some elaborate scheme to make her cry in HD. Me! The human doormat of trust! If anyone deserves the title Minister of Empty Promises, it’s not me—I don’t even have the paperwork. But the irony is delicious: the one time I was sincere, I was mistaken for a scammer. Maybe I should’ve handed her a receipt for my trust.

Then came another client. I had completed 75% of her research work but couldn’t finish the last 25% due to some technical hiccups (the kind that make you want to throw your laptop into the sun). I promised her I’d refund the part I didn’t complete. Of course, she doubted me—I mean, who in today’s economy voluntarily gives money back? She probably thought I was rehearsing a stand-up comedy skit. But lo and behold, I actually processed the refund. Her jaw dropped so far it probably scraped the floor. She was shocked, as if I’d just performed a miracle—like turning unpaid invoices into wine. Imagine that: honesty treated like witchcraft!

See, this is where my trust triangle comes in. Imagine a triangle with three corners: Empathy, Naivety, and Self-Sabotage. That’s my geometry of life. Logic doesn’t live here. Logic was kicked out years ago and now rents a one-bedroom apartment in someone else’s heart. Had I ever allowed logic into the conversation, half my disasters would have been avoided. Instead, I run headfirst into situations waving my “Empathy Flag” like a drunk matador, then wonder why the bull always wins.

But perhaps the most tragic piece of my trust triangle is the missing element: authenticity. It’s like oxygen in Nairobi traffic—everyone says it’s there, but good luck finding it. Most of the people and situations I’ve trusted turn out to be carefully wrapped counterfeits. Red flags? Oh, they’re there. They wave so furiously they could start a parade. But do I notice? No. I’m too busy squinting through rose-colored glasses, muttering, “They didn’t mean it that way,” as I walk straight into yet another emotional pothole.

So here I am, the ever-trusting fool, sitting in the ruins of my triangle—part philosopher, part clown, part unpaid intern of life—still wondering: is it me, or is everyone else allergic to authenticity? If Shakespeare were alive, he’d write a tragedy about me: The Merchant of Trust. And in the final act, as the curtain falls, the audience would throw not roses, but unpaid bills and IOUs, while I bow deeply, muttering, “At least Lisa believed me… I think.”

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