I never found anyone who was good enough, who I could trust

The words of Christine Keeler fall heavy, like the echo of a life scarred by betrayal: “I never found anyone who was good enough, who I could trust enough.” In this lament, there is not only sorrow but also truth, a truth that spans the centuries—that human beings hunger for loyalty and integrity, yet so often encounter deceit. To speak of trust in such a way is to confess the most painful poverty: not of wealth or comfort, but of faith in another soul. For without trust, even companionship becomes loneliness, and even love becomes a fragile illusion.

The ancients knew that trust was the bedrock of every bond—between lovers, between friends, between ruler and people. When Cicero spoke of fides, he named it the foundation of both private and public life. Without it, marriages collapse, friendships wither, kingdoms crumble. Keeler’s words, spoken in the shadow of scandal and political upheaval, reveal how the absence of trust corrodes the soul from within. She confesses what many fear to admit: that to be surrounded by people but unable to trust them is to be utterly alone.

Her life itself became a parable of this truth. Entangled in the Profumo affair in Britain during the 1960s, Christine Keeler found herself used as a pawn in games of power, lust, and politics. Those who claimed affection sought instead advantage. Those who promised protection left her vulnerable when scandal broke. Her cry that no one was “good enough” or trustworthy enough is not simply the bitterness of one woman, but the voice of countless souls across history who discovered that charm and power conceal selfish hearts.

History gives us many such examples. Consider Julius Caesar, who placed his trust in Brutus, only to receive the dagger of betrayal. Or think of Anne Boleyn, who once believed in Henry VIII’s love, but was cast aside and executed when ambition turned against her. In each case, the absence of true loyalty revealed the fragility of human promises. Keeler’s words remind us that even across centuries, betrayal and false trust remain among the most devastating of human experiences.

Yet, hidden in her lament is also a warning: to search endlessly for one “good enough” may also be a path of disillusionment. For no human soul is perfect, and if we demand flawless loyalty, we will always be disappointed. The heart must learn discernment—to distinguish between those who seek to exploit and those who, though imperfect, strive to love truly. To refuse all trust is to close the gates of the heart, and though it protects us from harm, it also bars us from the possibility of joy.

The deeper meaning, then, is balance. Keeler’s words teach us the danger of misplaced trust, but they also call us to reflection: how can we build a life in which trust is possible? Trust is not given blindly, nor demanded cheaply; it must be cultivated slowly, through actions proven over time. To live without trust is torment, but to give it recklessly is destruction. Only wisdom, patience, and discernment can chart the way between these extremes.

The lesson is clear: choose wisely whom you trust, and be yourself worthy of trust. Seek not perfection in others, but integrity. Learn from history, from the scars of those who gave their hearts to the unworthy, but do not allow fear to harden your soul forever. For trust, though dangerous, is also the only soil in which love, friendship, and community can grow.

Practical actions follow: observe not only words but deeds before granting your trust. Value those who stand by you in hardship, for their loyalty reveals more than a thousand declarations. Strive also to be such a person yourself—consistent, honest, and faithful—so that others may never feel the emptiness Keeler confessed. Above all, remember: life without trust is barren, but life with trust, though risky, opens the heart to its highest joys.