Trust
Trust is the key. Experience my words—or your own—in a way you can trust. Notice the light soothing the pain inside—the Core Self already here, opening the way forward when life interrupts.
To be listened to, read quietly—or together.
Right now I keep hearing the word “trust”—like a distant call getting louder, needing my attention. I don’t know why. It’s the middle of a frigid night in Vermont, nearby the calm shores of Lake Bomoseen, where I live.
I really need to get some sleep. Still, I question whether I should write more as I don’t know what’s waiting on the other side. The lake isn’t frozen yet, and it will be a while before people venture out.
Why do I need to know why? My work is about quiet trust—holding the mirror up to the light of many through the years, so they can see the trust within themselves that has always been there—the Core Self.
It’s a leap for some, but many love that I can hold the belief in their capacity for healing when they didn't think it was possible before.
The concept of multiplicity and parts takes a little bit more work for some to buy into, but when they can experience the bigger picture of who they are, it usually gets much easier.
In the moment, I question if a child part is in the room that is keeping me awake, or whether it’s just my Core Self wanting me to feel clearer in a world filled with so much smoke and mirrors that we don't know what to believe anymore—or who to trust.
As I listen to my breath, I sense some pressure on my shoulders. It feels a little like that of a child who felt alone in a family where he had to carry a lot on his shoulders. And that wasn't much fun. It was hard to laugh, and even harder to cry.
Woh—that’s strange… I notice some tears welling up in my eyes—and feel sad.
Why even go there right now? My lovely daughter and her family will be here for Christmas soon. The sweet laughter of my two bright-eyed granddaughters will be lighting up the house. Maybe even a few tears from time to time. But it’s all good.
Trust… there it is again. It’s getting a little easier to think about but I’m not sure why.
I think of my son who lives in the UK—so far away but close to heart. My wife and I were just there. Oh my God, those big bright eyes of my 3-month-old granddaughter taking in the world—looking at me and seeing each other for the first time. Feeling her tiny hands touching my thinning gray hair—glistening in the light. Her loving parents working in unison—not missing a trick. What a treat. I miss them already.
I wish we could all be together this year. Not sure when that will happen again. The tears gently make their entrance—as I bow my head in grace.
Okay, now I know what’s going on. This is my transformation, and I’m in a state of transition. It’s like jet lag. Similar to what happens with PTSD—where you stay stuck in time, and the meaning of the trauma gets locked in our brain—not always aware of when it awakens, and why.
It helped us survive back then, but now, it makes it hard to see the path ahead—even when it’s right in front of our eyes.
The funny thing is that it doesn’t feel like I'm stuck anymore. I could be if I didn't know myself so well. But I work at it. And I know I can trust my process—oscillating back and forth, giving it time and space to digest and assimilate—to feel my light and presence. It takes a little practice, and it helps to have a guide and others around us with kind eyes.
I think I’m okay… getting more sleepy. That’s a good sign. It’s like the little ones are feeling settled in my heart once again. They’re all tucked in tight under the covers, just the way I like it, next to my dear wife—along with all the other lights in my life, past and present—who still live in my heart.
I’m feeling grateful now, as I breathe into the sacred silence, and feel the trust inside. It‘s like a bright light encompassing me. I’m not scared or feel alone anymore. More words come to mind, like finding a buried treasure inside: Trust is what lets us stay connected, even when the time and distance change shape.
That’s it… I know I‘m home now—inside myself.
Feel into my words and find your own. And, when you’re ready, take a moment to lean into your Core Self. Make room for the silence, the light. Then you’ll know your truth.
Even if the trust isn’t there yet, let yourself feel the light of your Core Self as you hold the little ones in your heart. You won't be able to walk on water, but you’ll know when it’s safe to venture out, or to find a way back to shore when the time is right.
Although some risk is needed on this journey, it’s an acceptable one if we can trust ourselves—knowing when it’s okay to trust the ones that are already here or want to join us.
Good night and God bless. Sweet dreams. Tomorrow is another day—a special one, indeed. The light has arrived a little early this year—no longer invisible. Now, shining brightly on the people we were always meant to be—and are becoming.
I trust we‘ll be okay—open to the spirit of this holiday and others to come—the light of all the seasons of our life.
Sudden change of plans. We’ll be traveling to my daughter’s house tomorrow. Too much going on. We do what we have to—no questions asked. We’ll bring the gifts and nourishment with us—at least we’ll be together in the light while the darkness creeps in.
No need to ask why. Maybe you can relate. Let’s open our hearts to the warm light around us.
A new beginning awaits. Trust.
Gratitude: In appreciation of the kind soul who just sent me this photo—unaware of my situation, yet trusting it to fly to those who need it—along with others who have shared their light and sweetness with me over the years—and received mine.
Confidentiality note: Any resemblance to your own life or someone you know is both coincidental and universal—reminding us that our stories echo one another in the shared fabric of human experience.
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.
Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.