Trust is one of those strange, shape-shifting things that shows up in every kind of relationship, your friend, your wife, your boss, your barber, your mechanic (especially your mechanic). It’s invisible, but somehow you feel it in your chest, like a quiet hum when things are going well… and a tightening screw when something feels off.
I’ve always believed relationships are held up by two beams: connection and trust. Connection invites someone into your world. Trust gives them a key.
But here’s the tricky part, no one tells you how many keys to hand out. Or who should get the gold one. Or when it’s okay to say, “Listen, this thing… this one stays with me.”
And that’s where this story begins.
The Zach Chapter
I once had a friend let’s call him Zach.
If life were a party, Zach was the guy who knew everyone: the DJ, the girl at the door, the owner’s cousin’s cousin, the bartender’s ex… the whole ecosystem. His social life was like a web with no missing threads. You tugged on one and ten new people fell out of nowhere.
And he didn’t collect people to show off he genuinely liked them. He remembered your mom’s birthday. He introduced you to people he thought you’d vibe with. He carried people like bookmarks in his mind, saving space for them.
One of the people he introduced me to eventually became my business partner. And here’s the plot twist: I didn’t tell him.
Not because it was meant to be shady. It’s just… sometimes you step into something thinking, “This is simple, man. Don’t overcomplicate it.”
And the guy didn’t tell him either. So now you have two grown men being strangely quiet about something that wasn’t even illegal.
Then, as life loves to do, the universe coughed.
The business deal went sideways. Proper Murphy’s Law audition tape. Everything that could go wrong showed up with a clipboard and said, “Sign here.”
I found myself getting played, blindsided, scrambling to fix a mess I didn’t create. The kind of mess that makes you text someone, then delete the message, then write it again, then delete it again because you’re not sure how to start.
And all the while, this voice kept creeping in:
“Tell Zach.”
But I didn’t.
I kept quiet.
Because I was embarrassed.
Because I felt stupid.
Because I didn’t want to hear him say, “Bro… why didn’t you tell me from the start?”
I told myself I would tell him once I’d sorted things out. Once I had a neat little ending. Once I didn’t look like a chop.
Then Zach died.
Just like that.
The end of the chapter. No warning. No space for a confession. No last chance to say anything that mattered.
And suddenly, the silence I thought I was protecting him from… turned into a silence I had to live with.
It made me ask myself what I’m asking you now:
How do you know when to keep something to yourself, and when to share it?
Where is the line between privacy… and secrecy?
Between protecting someone… and shutting them out?
Trust Isn’t a Switch, It’s a Scale
Most people talk about trust like it’s a yes/no question:
- “Do you trust him?”
- “Do you trust your partner?”
- “Do you trust your team?”
But trust isn’t binary. It’s more like sound.
You can turn it up.
You can turn it down.
Sometimes it’s a whisper.
Sometimes it’s loud enough to shake the furniture.
And each relationship asks for a different volume.
You might trust your barber with your hairline but not your deepest fears.
You might trust your boss with your career but not your marriage.
You might trust your friend with your childhood stories but not the thing you’re still trying to understand about yourself.
Trust doesn’t demand full access.
But it does require honesty about where the access points are.
So When Do You Share, and When Do You Keep Quiet?
Here’s what losing Zach taught me,not in theory, but in that uncomfortable way life force-feeds you wisdom.
1. If the silence is coming from fear, you probably need to talk.
Fear is a warning sign.
Fear says you’re hiding, not choosing.
Fear says the relationship is being quietly rearranged without the other person knowing.
Keeping something private because it’s yours is fine.
Keeping something secret because you’re scared of someone’s reaction… that’s where trust starts to slip.
I wasn’t protecting Zach.
I was protecting my pride.
And the two are not the same thing.
2. If the decision affects them—even indirectly—they deserve a seat at the table.
Zach introduced me to that guy.
That already made him part of the ecosystem.
Not telling him wasn’t “keeping it simple” it was cutting him out of a loop he helped create.
Trust grows when you involve people in things that matter to them.
Even if the involvement is just:
“Hey bro, this is what’s happening. Just heads up.”
3. Private things are fine. Isolating things are not.
Privacy is healthy.
Everyone needs a room in their life where no one else walks in.
But secrecy isolates.
Secrecy erases your lifelines.
Secrecy convinces you that you’re alone when you’re not.
If you know someone would care…
If you know someone should know…
If you know someone would want to be there…
that’s usually your cue.
4. Ask yourself: “If they found out later, would it feel like betrayal?”
This one stings.
But it’s the most honest filter.
Imagine them hearing the story a year later.
Are they laughing?
Or are they asking, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
If the answer is the second one…
share it now.
The Hardest Truth: Trust Isn’t Just About Others
Trust is also about trusting yourself enough to be seen.
With your mistakes.
With your bad decisions.
With your messy middle chapters.
I didn’t tell Zach because I didn’t trust myself to look flawed in front of him.
But real trust can handle flaws.
It can hold imperfection.
It can survive awkward conversations.
What it can’t survive is pretending.
If I Could Rewrite One Thing…
I don’t regret the business deal.
Life is generous with chaos; you can’t avoid that.
But I do regret not giving Zach the chance to be himself
the guy who listened,
the guy who laughed you out of your panic,
the guy who knew people so well because he paid attention.
He would have understood.
He would have said something like,
“Bro, you’re not the first guy to make a bad decision. Come, let’s fix it.”
And that’s the thing with trust:
the people who deserve it usually handle the truth better than you think.
So How Do You Know?
You know by asking yourself one simple question:
“Is this silence protecting the relationship… or protecting my ego?”
If it’s the first, trust yourself.
If it’s the second, trust them.
Because people die.
Not the memories, not the stories, not the impact
just the chances to tell them things while they’re still here to hear it.