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Human Parts
A publication about humanity from Medium: yours, mine, and ours.


In Human Parts. More on Medium.

This Is Us

After my trust was abused in my marriage, I learned to trust myself

Suspicion is the companion of mean souls and the bane of all good society. —Thomas Paine

The porn videos sitting on his bedside table were the first thing I made note of. The one on top was “Poke-ahantas.”

It wasn’t unusual for a paid caregiver to answer the door at a hospice patient’s home and usher me, a hospice social worker, into the bedroom. Mr. K wasn’t in his bed, however.

I’d never met him before; he’d just begun receiving home hospice care the day prior. The nurse’s opening notes said he was born in the former Soviet Union and…

Humans 101

How trust can help you live authentically and spontaneously

I was sitting in my therapist’s office when I divulged, “I told him I loved him. I couldn’t keep it in any longer.”

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He told me he loved me too,” I replied. “But he had to say something back,” I added. “I don’t know if he really does.”

“Why don’t we take him for his word?” my therapist suggested.

Good idea, I thought. I hadn’t considered that.

It was easier for me to believe that the universe was in on a giant hoax to fool me than to take people for their word.


Trust Issues

The foolishness of trusting what you love because you love it

On my first day in Florence, Italy, three years ago, I went into a tiny gelato shop near the apartment I was renting for the month, and after I ordered gelato, reached into my pocket to pay, and realized I didn’t have enough. I struggled to explain this in my limited Italian to the shopkeeper, a friendly young man who listened perhaps for a second before he breezily said, “Pay me later,” in excellent English.

I admit I was stunned. I’d never met him before. But what was interesting to me was that as he said this, I thought, I…

Trust Issues

After two abusive relationships, finally trusting my inner voice helped me get back up — and stay there

The first time he punched me, there was no warning.

For a split second, I didn’t understand what had happened. As we walked back into our flat, he was behind me, so I hadn’t seen the fist that came flying at the side of my head. I cannoned forward, hitting the wall hard with my shoulder and sliding down as my legs curled beneath me. My head dropped forward, my face hidden beneath my long auburn hair. I froze, pretending to be unconscious so he wouldn’t hit me again.

I still remember what I was wearing: a loose cream jumper…

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