My business website is down—the same one built by Liberating Solutions—and it’s sending me into powerless spirals of mistrust.
A year, maybe two ago, Sid had gained my trust. His initial sales pitch sounded like care, and his vision for my site aligned with mine, even pushing me to dream bigger. But when he was late in responding, or an email bounced back as undeliverable, I’d be hit with the gut-wrenching realization: I’d been swindled. It felt like being trapped in a dark pit—gagged, hands tied, no way out.
Fast forward to today. My website is gone. I fumble through the control panel, searching for anything familiar, but there’s nothing. My breath catches in my throat as paranoia sets in. Backups? Nowhere. All that time, all that money, all that stress—gone. Every attempt to log in leads to another dead end.
Dave offers comfort, his outstretched arms a quiet invitation to calm down. I go to him—somewhat reluctantly. My spinning mind, my rapidly beating heart, my fear does not want calm. It wants destruction. It wants to punch drywall and stomp the ground like Daisy in the Mario Wonder Seed game. I don’t want comfort. I want solutions.
The only people who can help? Sid or Alex from Liberating Solutions. I dial the first number—out of order. Of course. A confirmation of what I feared. I really have been scammed. The site, the work, the details—lost. Fear is all I know.
But desperation wins. I try another number. A U.S. number this time, not the Indian one that led nowhere. First ring—someone picks up. A familiar voice.
“Hi, I’m looking for Alex. He did my website and may have the login I need.”
It was him. Alex. Calmly correcting what I needed, asking for my login information, and promising to fix it in the morning.
That final moment, I felt relief—but not entirely. The tension didn’t fully leave, like a shadow that refuses to disappear even when the lights come on. There’s this ever-present part of me, a watchful guard, whispering, See? You can’t just trust people. You always have to be ready.
And I hate that.
I wish I could turn it off, let things be simple. But trust has never come easily, and this experience only reinforces that.
So how do I let go of this pattern? What if I can’t?
Maybe trust isn’t about blind faith, but about giving myself permission to release the grip just a little—to acknowledge that not everyone is out to take advantage of me. But that’s the battle, isn’t it? Because the moment I let go, the moment I exhale, is when the rug has been pulled from under me in the past.
So I keep my guard up. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully relax. But if I can’t, is that protection… or a prison?
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 