I trust myself. I trust my instincts. I know what I'm gonna do

Carrie Fisher once said: “I trust myself. I trust my instincts. I know what I'm gonna do, what I can do, what I can't do. I've been through a lot, and I could go through more, but I hope I don't have to. But if I did, I'd be able to do it. I'm not going to enjoy dying, but there's not much prep for that.” These words, though spoken with her characteristic wit and honesty, shine with a wisdom that transcends time. In them we hear the voice of a woman who has walked through fire and come out tempered, not broken. They are the words of one who has faced her own darkness and learned to live without illusion. Trust, resilience, and acceptance — these are the pillars of her truth, and through them, she teaches us how to face life with courage and death with grace.

The origin of this quote lies in Fisher’s later years, when she reflected upon the storms of her own existence — her battles with mental illness, addiction, fame, and heartbreak. Known to the world as Princess Leia, she was far more than the character that made her famous. Behind the laughter and the sharp humor was a soul that had known despair and chosen to rise above it. Her words reveal a profound self-awareness, earned not from comfort but from endurance. Fisher speaks as one who has been tested by life’s extremes — and who has learned, at last, to trust her instincts, not because they are perfect, but because they have carried her through every trial that tried to break her.

“I trust myself.” These are words of rare power. For many live their whole lives ruled by the voices of others — by expectation, by doubt, by fear. But Fisher had learned what the ancients called gnōthi seauton — “know thyself.” She had come to understand that the truest guide in the chaos of existence is the inner compass of one’s own heart. To trust oneself is not arrogance; it is harmony between the mind and the soul. It is the quiet knowledge of one’s own limits and one’s own strength. It is to stand firm in the storm, knowing that whatever comes, you have the capacity to endure. And this, she reminds us, is not born of pride — it is born of survival.

Her words “I’ve been through a lot, and I could go through more, but I hope I don’t have to” carry the humility of a seasoned warrior. She does not romanticize suffering, nor does she deny its value. The ancients would have seen in her a Stoic spirit — one who accepts fate not with surrender, but with calm resolve. Marcus Aurelius wrote, “Do not pray for a lighter burden, but for a stronger back.” Fisher’s voice echoes this same truth. She does not beg life to be gentle; she simply knows that if life turns cruel again, she will stand. Such faith in one’s endurance is not the boast of the fearless — it is the wisdom of the scarred. For every scar is proof that one has already won a thousand small battles against despair.

Her reflection on death — “I’m not going to enjoy dying, but there’s not much prep for that” — is the final jewel in this crown of wisdom. It is not said in fear, nor in resignation, but in acceptance. The ancients, too, revered such calm before the unknown. Socrates, before drinking the cup of poison, said that death was either eternal sleep or a journey to a better place — and that neither was to be feared. Fisher, in her modern candor, echoes the same philosophy. She strips death of its false grandeur and faces it as one more inevitable passage in the story of existence. She teaches that to live wisely is to make peace with what cannot be changed — and that the best preparation for death is to live with honesty and courage while life remains.

Consider also the story of Helen Keller, who, though struck blind and deaf as a child, learned to communicate and to inspire millions. Like Fisher, Keller could have been defeated by her limitations — but instead she learned to trust herself. She once said, “Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened.” Keller’s life, like Fisher’s, shows that the spirit can triumph over any darkness if one learns to listen to the voice within. Both women, in different ages, carried the same truth: that self-trust is the anchor of the soul — the light that no shadow can extinguish.

Let this be the lesson we take from Carrie Fisher’s words: trust yourself, for no one else walks your path. Know your strength, but also your limits. Do not fear hardship, for it is the forge in which resilience is made. And when you face the unknown — whether it is loss, change, or death itself — do not waste your days in fear. Live as she lived: with humor, with courage, with truth. Prepare not for dying, but for living rightly. For those who live with self-trust and acceptance are already immortal in the hearts they touch.

And so, her words remain not as a farewell, but as a torch passed to those who follow. “I trust myself. I trust my instincts.” In these simple phrases lies the secret of peace: to know oneself, to accept life as it comes, and to meet both joy and suffering with the same steady heart. Such wisdom is not only for the famous or the brave — it is for all who walk this earth. And if we learn it, then like Carrie Fisher, we too will face the rising sun of each new day — unafraid, unbroken, and free.