When our words echo boldly
Thoughts on trust, communication, and how vulnerable words create meaning.
As I’ve focused my academic research and writing on the impact of generative AI on strategic communication in the last few years, it’s become obvious to me that the concept of trust is inextricable from effective communication.
Trust is a component of effective communication.
Trust is a result of effective communication.
And trust is the reason behind why we communicate in the first place.
We communicate with others to get them to trust us, and we want them to communicate in return so we can trust them.
When I write about communication, I’m writing about trust. And vice versa.
Trust is how we decide where to place our attention, who to listen to, and how much of ourselves we’re willing to risk in relationship. It’s not just a feeling — it’s a fundamental part of how we make sense of the world and move through it.
The vulnerability myth
To some, trust implies total transparency. If the writer or speaker holds anything back, they are deemed untrustworthy. But how many of us truly bare our souls for public consumption?
This is a question I have been wrestling with lately. In my dozen years of running Horizon Peak Consulting, and writing professionally for both my business and our clients, I have drawn a firm line between my work and my personal life. Initially this was to present a more professional persona — but as I got more and more effective at moving audiences to action, I discovered that vulnerability isn’t necessarily a liability.
In writing, vulnerability reveals our beautiful humanity, and it can move readers more effectively than any of the psychological gimmicks that copywriters deploy.
In speaking, vulnerability opens up a connection point for the audience, and it can move the audience more effectively than any clever pitch or framework.
But by necessity, vulnerability requires us to show the difficult, sensitive, dark or otherwise challenging parts of ourselves. And that can be impossibly hard. It feels risky. What if I share a personal story and someone takes it the wrong way? What if I reveal something about myself and people start questioning my competence? What if it makes me look weak?
This conflation of weakness and professional incompetence is a legacy of capitalism that we need to let go of now that AI is telling stories on the same platforms we are.
This is how we stand apart from the robots: We share our human experience and show our soft underbelly.
We strengthen our human signal in the digital noise.
It’s something I’d like to do more of here on Trust Fall.
Trust is the root of meaning
Trust isn’t one thing — it’s a fragile, moving constellation of competence, integrity and connection.
When communication is trustworthy, we don’t just understand the message. We believe it. We carry it with us. We let it influence how we think, how we lead, and how we connect with others. That kind of communication — the kind that resonates, not just informs — makes us feel seen.
But when communication feels disembodied or insincere — when it’s templatized, rushed, or clearly optimized for performance over presence — we sense the disconnect, and we pull back.
And once trust starts to erode, no amount of polish can make the message land.
Trust is also how people decide whether to engage with you again. Whether they’ll read your next post. Whether they’ll believe your next message. Whether they’ll give you the benefit of the doubt when something goes wrong.
So we don’t build trust by being louder, more prolific or more optimized.
We build trust by being present in our words.
By writing with care.
By speaking as one human to another.
That’s what makes communication matter — not just in the moment, but in how it echoes over time.