I’ve been thinking a lot about trust lately. Not because it’s missing, but because even when it’s strong, something delicate can still fracture.

What I’m noticing is this: fear can disrupt even the healthiest relationships. The history may be there. The intent may be good. And still, pressure or uncertainty can pull us into responses we don’t quite recognise. We speak more sharply than we mean to. We listen less generously. We retreat when we hoped to stay connected.

In those moments, the issue isn’t a lack of trust. It’s fear.

I work in financial services, so the idea of a bank account feels familiar. Deposits, withdrawals, compounding. That language maps closely onto our emotional lives. Trust builds quietly through small, consistent acts. Over time, those deposits create resilience. But trust, unlike money, is not easily replaced once it’s lost. Rebuilding it takes patience, humility, and care.

Brené Brown’s marble jar helps make this visible. Trust grows through everyday (small) actions. When the jar is full, we feel safe enough to be honest and open. Even then, fear can rattle it. All it takes is a rushed comment, a sharp tone, or a truth offered without enough care.

Research consistently points to the same thing. Trust is relational and contextual. It is shaped in moments, especially uncertain ones. When trust is present, people speak up, learn together, and stay engaged. When fear takes over, even strong teams grow quieter.

This is the part I find most humbling.

I notice how easily fear can narrow my own behaviour. A tight deadline, a comment I didn’t expect, a sense of pressure to perform or protect. In those moments, I become more certain and less curious. That kind of certainty rarely serves the relationship.

I’m also learning that conflict itself isn’t the problem. When held with care, it can interrupt old patterns and open the door to repair. The work isn’t to avoid tension, but to meet it with awareness. That takes courage and restraint. It asks us to stay present when it would be easier to react or retreat.

Rupture, then, isn’t failure. It’s information. A signal that something felt threatening. An invitation to slow down and choose how we respond.

Trust doesn’t remove fear. It gives us something to return to when fear shows up. Repair matters more than perfection. Trust grows through how honestly and kindly we find our way back.

I keep coming back to the image of the lighthouse.

When emotions rise, many of us feel pulled to become the rescue boat. We move quickly toward the problem, eager to fix or smooth things over. Often this comes from care. But strong relationships don’t always need rescuing. They need steadiness.

Being the lighthouse means holding your place. Staying visible and grounded while emotions pass. Responding with presence rather than urgency. It isn’t about distance or detachment. It’s about coherence.

Not abandoning the relationship. And not abandoning yourself.

This week

Reach in: Notice where fear shaped your response. What felt important to protect?

Reset: Before speaking a hard truth, pause. Ask what this moment needs most.

Reach out: If something feels strained, name it gently.