The Secrets We Share

The Secrets We Share

On Stewardship, Silence and the Things Still Becoming

“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”

— Benjamin Franklin

It is a humorous quote, but beneath the humour sits an enduring truth. The moment we share something, it no longer belongs solely to us. It enters another person’s understanding, their experiences, their fears, their hopes, their assumptions and their interpretations. What returns is often shaped as much by them as by us.

For many years, I believed trust was primarily about finding the right people. Life taught me something more nuanced. Trust matters. Character matters. Integrity matters. But discernment matters too. Not everything meaningful needs an audience. Not every vision benefits from exposure. Not every dream requires validation. Not every seed should be dug up to prove it is growing. Some things strengthen in silence. Some things require privacy, not because they are fragile, but because they are alive.

I have spent much of my life sharing openly — ideas, experiences, dreams, plans, insights, questions. At times, I mistook transparency for wisdom. I believed that if something was genuine, sharing it would naturally strengthen it. Experience taught me otherwise. Not because people are malicious, for most are not, but because human beings are interpreters. We receive information through the lens of our own history, beliefs, fears and desires. What one person hears as possibility, another hears as risk. What one person hears as inspiration, another hears as fantasy. What one person hears as certainty, another hears as doubt. This is not a flaw in human nature. It is simply human nature. And once you understand that, something changes. You become less concerned with being understood by everyone. You become more interested in understanding what belongs where.

The older I become, the more I realise there is a difference between what has been lived and what is still becoming. What has been lived can be shared freely. The lesson is complete; the experience has roots; the insight has matured; and it can withstand interpretation. What is still becoming is different — a future vision, a new direction, a possibility still gathering form, a life quietly rearranging itself beneath the surface. These things often require protection. Not from attack, but from interference. Not because others wish them harm, but because growth has its own timing. A seedling does not benefit from being constantly examined. Roots form underground. Much of life’s most important work happens where nobody can see it.

Perhaps this is why I have become more private over time. Not more closed, but more discerning. I am happy to speak about roads I have already travelled. I am less inclined to discuss roads I have only just begun walking. The difference matters. One belongs to experience. The other belongs to emergence.

For a long time, I thought privacy was about self-protection. Now I think it is more accurately described as stewardship — stewardship of energy, of attention, of possibility, of the parts of life still taking shape. Some things are not hidden because they are feared. They are protected because they are valued.

The irony is that this understanding has made me both more private and more honest. I no longer feel compelled to explain every part of myself. I no longer feel obligated to announce every plan. I no longer feel the need to seek reassurance from other people’s opinions before trusting my own knowing. There is a quiet confidence that emerges when something no longer requires witness in order to be real.

Perhaps that is what maturity teaches. Not secrecy, not withdrawal, not isolation, but discernment. The ability to recognise what belongs in conversation and what belongs in incubation. The ability to know when something is ready to be shared and when it is still asking for silence. The ability to honour becoming as much as arrival.

Because not everything sacred is meant to be spoken immediately. Some things need time. Some things need roots. Some things need seasons. And some of life’s most important transformations occur long before anyone else knows they have begun. Until then, silence is not fear. It is stewardship. And perhaps that is one of the greatest secrets we share.

Delahrose Roobie Myer

A scribe, listening to the field. A little lantern in the shadows.

Author of Fatima’s Alchemy