Part I/ The Stories We Borrow Without Question (#327)

There’s something quietly powerful about the way humans take in information. We don’t always think about where it comes from, how it formed, or whether it’s even accurate. Most of the time, we simply trust the messenger. And on the surface, that feels reasonable. After all, trust is the lifeblood of connection. We trust the people we care about. We trust the people we’ve known the longest. We trust the people who have shown up for us, supported us, or proven themselves dependable.

But here’s where the story gets complicated:
Just because someone is trustworthy does not mean the information they share is true.

That realization can be uncomfortable. It feels almost disloyal to question the words of someone we value. So instead of asking deeper questions, we take what they say and tuck it into our minds as fact. Not because we’ve verified it. Not because we’ve witnessed it. But because it came from someone we believe would never mislead us.

And yet even the most trustworthy person in your life is still human. They can misunderstand. They can assume. They can interpret something through their own fears or wounds. They can repeat something they heard from another source that was biased, distorted, or simply inaccurate. They can pass along information with complete sincerity—and still be wrong.

This is how stories get tangled.
This is how beliefs get inherited without examination.
This is how we end up carrying someone else’s perspective as if it were our own.

Most of us never stop to ask where a piece of information originated. We don’t ask if it was firsthand or fifth-hand. We don’t consider whether the person sharing it was emotionally charged when they heard it. We don’t wonder if something was lost in translation or shaped by personal interpretation. Instead, we absorb it. We internalize it. We treat it as reliable simply because the person sharing it feels reliable.

This is how we unknowingly surrender our discernment.

Human beings are wired to trust the familiar. Trust makes life easier. It reduces friction. It helps us feel safe. But sometimes, this instinct blinds us to the nuance of what’s being shared. When information passes through multiple people, it becomes like a photocopy of a photocopy—each retelling slightly warping the clarity of the original truth.

What makes this even more complicated is that we don’t only adopt the information; we also adopt the emotion behind it. If someone tells you a story with outrage, you feel a flicker of their outrage. If someone shares something with sadness, you absorb a bit of that sadness. Emotion colors information long before logic arrives. And that emotional coloring makes the information feel even more true, even when it may not be.

We rarely examine how deeply we’re influenced simply because we love or respect the person speaking.

It’s not about distrusting people. It’s about recognizing that truth requires more than a familiar voice. Blind trust is not loyalty; it’s passivity. Real loyalty includes clarity, compassion, and thoughtful discernment.

The stories we borrow shape the decisions we make, the opinions we form, and the people we become. Which means we owe it to ourselves to ask a simple, courageous question before accepting something as fact:

Is this actually true, or is it simply trusted?

Part I leaves us with a moment of introspection:
How often do I let someone else’s story become my own without pausing to understand where it came from?