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Exploring the Intricacies of Trust

4/11/2026

Some of the DRC Crew enjoying the Grasse River

I trust kids. I have said it hundreds of times over the years — in conversations, in essays, in rooms full of skeptical adults. It is the simplest explanation I have for why self-directed education works, and somehow, still the most surprising to people. It is not simply a value I hold. It is the foundation on which Deep Root Center is built.

I often think about how this looks from the outside — to those shaped by a system that has collectively decided that children cannot and should not be trusted. That what I practice is naïve. Sentimental. Maybe even reckless.

But the damage runs deeper than how we treat children. Culturally, we have also learned not to trust ourselves — our intuition, our guts, the quiet knowledge that lives below the noise. We have been taught to outsource our certainty to experts, institutions, and algorithms. To doubt the one voice that has known us longest.

This is not a call for blind faith. I have learned, over time, to hold trust and discernment together — to stay open without being credulous. When something feels false, I say so. When I sense manipulation or deception at work, I name it. Skepticism, in its healthiest form, is not the opposite of trust. It is trust's most honest companion.

That clarity has taken years to develop — and the writing has been a large part of how I found it. As previously mentioned, I am currently revisiting every essay I have written over the past twelve years, working toward a book. I have made it through only two years so far, and I have already flagged seven pieces that speak directly to trust. Seven. It will have its own chapter — not because I planned it that way, but because it has revealed itself as one of the most important concepts of this work.

Sitting with all of that this week, something clicked. I finally understood why trust feels so radical right now. So counterintuitive. So almost transgressive.

We are living through one of the most distrustful moments in modern history. We cannot take a single word from this regime at face value. They lie the way the rest of us breathe — reflexively, continuously, as if the truth itself is the thing that might kill them.

To explicitly tell children that they are trustworthy — in a world that models the opposite every single day, from the highest offices on down — that is not a small act. It might be the most subversive thing I do.

Below are revised excerpts from three of those seven pieces — one about trusting kids, two about the importance of everyone learning to trust themselves. Read together, they trace the full arc of what I mean when I say trust is foundational. The original posts are linked in the titles.

From: Are You Crazy?
4/20/2015

Scanning the last fifty years of my life — I can only really account for about forty-five of them — I barely recognize the person I was even twenty years ago. I was the child who hated school but sucked it up anyway. A goody two-shoes, to be blunt about it. I was a timid kid, afraid of my own shadow.

I have never liked rules. I have always chafed against control and restriction. And yet I spent decades toeing the line, deferring to authority, swallowing my discomfort, and complying. No one who knew me then would have predicted the life I am living now — least of all me.

But nothing I have chosen surprises people quite as much as this: I trust kids. All kids. Explicitly.

I trust that they know what they need to learn. I trust that they know how they learn best. I trust that they will ask good questions, tell the truth, and respect the earth and the people on it. I trust that they will try their best — and that when they fall short, they will own it and try to make it right. I trust that they will grow into adults who make change, do good work, and move through the world with care.

This is not optimism. It is not sentiment. It is cause and effect. Trust generates trustworthiness. When each child knows — not hopes, but knows — that they are trusted to make good choices, they make them. They grow comfortable in their own skin. They become genuinely curious about other people's perspectives, because their own have been honored. When children are free to build their own lives rather than navigate the weight of someone else's fears and disappointments, they flourish — on their own terms, by their own definition.

And this trust does not stop with children. I extend it to people broadly. I believe most of us are cooperative creatures at our core — except for those few who have been so thoroughly corrupted by power and greed that they have lost access to that part of themselves entirely. When given real freedom, genuine kindness, and meaningful options, people tend toward generosity. They look out for one another. This is not naïve — it is ancient. Our ancestors survived because they relied on each other. That impulse did not disappear. It was deliberately trained out of us.

The operative words are freedom, choice, kindness, and viable options. Remove them, and people contract. They make decisions from scarcity and self-protection. Restore them, and something else becomes possible.

From: Safety - (Illusions and Reality)
4/27/2015

When you encounter something new or unfamiliar, what tells you it is safe? What are you actually looking for?

A government permit? A license? The endorsement of a large number of people? These are the signals we have been taught to read. They feel like evidence. They feel like protection.

But what if they are not? What if the things we most commonly use to verify safety offer, in the end, no real guarantee at all?

Think about that for a moment.

Now consider this: what if safety had nothing to do with official approval or popular consensus — and everything to do with track record, integrity, and the quiet sense that something is genuinely good? What if the most reliable signal was not external validation, but your own intuitive sense of rightness?

Safety has nothing to do with following the crowd. It never did. It has everything to do with learning to trust yourself — and then having the courage to act on it.

From: Trust; Part 2
9/5/14

Reflecting on what I had written a while back, I realized I had missed something essential. It is not enough for kids to feel trusted by the adults around them — they also need to learn how to trust themselves. One grows from the other. When a child feels genuinely trusted and respected, something opens up. They begin to discover that their own instincts are worth listening to.

This matters more than we acknowledge. The capacity to learn is directly shaped by self-knowledge and inner well-being. When you know what interests you — what lights you up, what makes you lose track of time — you naturally move toward it. You seek it out. You go deep. Trusting yourself is not the finish line. It is the starting point.

But today's culture teaches something different. It teaches that achievement matters more than awareness, that acquisition matters more than growth, that the opinions of others are a more reliable measure of your worth than your own. Children absorb this. They learn to jump through hoops because the hoops come with rewards — good grades, adult approval, a sense of being seen. The cycle becomes self-reinforcing. Pleasing others gradually replaces knowing yourself, and most kids never notice the trade they've made.

Every young person needs to hear the opposite message — clearly, repeatedly, and from people they trust.

Trust that you know yourself better than anyone else ever will. Trust that your ideas and passions are worthy of serious exploration. Trust that you are learning and growing in every moment, even the ones that don't look like progress. Trust that you will occasionally fail spectacularly — and that those failures may turn out to be your most important teachers. Trust your decisions, and resist the pull of "I wish I had," because everything you have done has brought you here. Trust that your apologies, offered with genuine humility, will land. Trust that the people in your life love you more deeply than they always manage to say. And above all, trust that you are good — and that when you show up as your true self, the right people will recognize it.

DRC News

I have enjoyed a quiet Spring Break. Stay tuned for photos of next week’s return to exploits and shenanigans. We only have six weeks left before we say goodbye for this academic year. Another one flew by in the blink of an eye!

My “girls” are free-ranging this week to hopefully(!) eradicate the local tick population.

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Cringe

4/4/2026

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First signs of spring in the NoCo.

Until a few months ago, I had no word for it — that all-encompassing feeling when something external makes me clench inside and compels me to flee. My family will tell you I can't sit through a movie or television show without jumping up every few minutes to escape the storyline. It happens with books, too: you'll find me flipping to the last pages to confirm there's a safe landing. For years, I assumed it was simply an aversion to suspense.

But it happens in real life as well. Someone is oversharing an embarrassing story. A person talking too loudly. A drunk without inhibitions. An April Fools' joke — or any situation where the intended meaning is ambiguous to those of us who take everything at face value and will, without fail, take the bait before our natural skepticism eventually, belatedly, surfaces. Each one triggers that same interior flinching, that urgent need to be elsewhere.

And then there's our current national nightmare — though there the discomfort is quickly swallowed by something rawer: fury, and a stunned disbelief that never quite goes away, no matter how many times the grifters and con artists prove themselves shameless.

Earlier this year, I heard some kids toss the word around casually — cringe, cringy — and something clicked. That was it. One small, sideways word for something I'd been carrying my whole life without a name for it.

There's a persistent myth that autistic people lack empathy — that a flat affect or averted eyes signal indifference. I'd like to set the record straight: most of us feel empathy in abundance. What looks like withdrawal is often the opposite. The cringe isn't detachment. It's empathy with nowhere to go, turned inward, looking for an exit.

I feel others' pain as if it has weight. When someone shares a struggle, something in my brain shifts immediately into problem-solving mode — fully convinced, with characteristic autistic certainty, that a solution exists and that I am going to find it. The wanting to fix things isn't detachment either. It's just empathy wearing a different coat.

Which brings me to its quiet twin: a lifelong aversion to being perceived. I can't bear to hear my own voice in recordings, or to linger on a photo or video of myself. Where most people seem to draw some comfort from being seen and known, I crave invisibility. The logic is simple, if a little bleak: if there's any chance I might be the one who's cringe, I'd rather disappear than find out.

I wrote the post below in February 2015, thinking I was reflecting on self-perception — on the gap between the self we inhabit and the self others observe. What I didn't realize at the time was that I was also describing masking, a concept I had no language for yet. That feels about right. My neurospiciness was always there, doing exactly what it does, hiding in plain sight.

Photo by Ian Taylor on Unsplash

Perceptions
2/12/2015

There is often a dramatic difference between how others see us and how we see ourselves. About a month ago, I participated in an exercise that asked me to list my strengths. It took me a long time. I could have rattled off two or three strengths for every other person in the room, but when it came to myself, I drew a blank — until one thing surfaced: I am very good at appearing confident, even when I am anything but.

On the surface, this might sound like deception. But what I've come to understand is that the willingness to jump in, figure it out, and get things done is itself a real skill — one other people have consistently associated with me. On the outside, I project a positive, can-do attitude. On the inside, I am a mass of quivering doubt.

Which made me wonder: is everyone like this? Does everyone present one face to the world while their inner voice quietly picks apart their abilities, their judgment, their intelligence?

I've written before about personal expectations, and I think they're doing a lot of work here. I take on difficult tasks because I am, by nature, what I call an optimal realist — a blend of optimist and realist of my own invention. I've pulled things off before, and I've always appreciated a good challenge. But the moment I commit, the internal questioning begins. I won't transcribe the full interior monologue — trust me, it can get discouraging and even petty. Somehow, though, the optimistic side always manages to win out.

There's also the matter of ego. Not only does our inner self differ from the self we show the world, but our public self differs from our private, at-home self as well. We curate what people see. I choose to lead with the confident, decisive version of myself rather than the wavering one — not purely out of vanity, but because it allows me to contribute, to get things done, to be useful. The positive feedback that follows feeds the cycle. There's nothing wrong with that.

Which brings it back, as it always does, to choice. We make decisions every day that ripple outward into other people's lives. Being true to yourself matters, but when a behavior would cause harm, authenticity isn't a good enough excuse.

Choosing to be pleasant and upbeat isn't a performance I resent. I want honesty, integrity, empathy, and hard work associated with my name. I'm aware that how I show up can affect someone's day — sometimes more than that. Spreading good energy isn't a sacrifice.

It's an honor.

DRC News

Weekly Wrap-up

This Monday was the first day that the winter doldrums seemed to be swept away and replaced by a fresh perspective, new ideas, and explosive bursts of creativity.

Tuesday included more cabin building. TS recruited a few teens to carry the pallets from the front yard for him. They may have abandoned that idea to create a teepee type structure from all of the very large sticks. CM spent hours building it. Sadly, there is no photo of that.

Digby Doo decided to soak up as much attention and lovings as possible on the last day before our Spring Break. Although we pop in to check on him and keep his food and water topped up, he doesn't get the undivided attention he thrives on when everyone is at the Center.

Have a delightful Spring Break!

The DRC Crew will be back on Monday, March 13th.

Thursday’s Kitchen Sink Science involved a challenge to create a device that would shoot an aluminum ball into a "goal." We noticed that the brothers who worked together and combined their skill sets- one is an artist and the other is mechanically inclined- designed successful devices. Bonus: they learned what a fulcrum is and why it is important.

SOAR Presentation

Thank you to all of the folks who participated in the Exploring the Possibilities through Self-Directed Education SOAR class at the Canton Free Library on Wednesday. It was such a pleasure to share the history of DRC and how SDE informs our everyday life at the Center.

These are just a few of the slides from the presentation.

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