Sometimes you trust someone who turns out not to be honest.

Hear the words of Sigourney Weaver, spoken not in the voice of a heroine upon the screen, but as a woman who has looked upon the frailty of human dealings: “Sometimes you trust someone who turns out not to be honest. There are a lot of things that happen in life that don’t turn out the way you’re given the impression that they will. And I think that’s all kind of a con. But I think we’ve probably all been hurt.” In this confession lies a wisdom both sorrowful and universal: that trust is a fragile gift, easily broken; that appearances are deceiving; and that no one passes through life without tasting the bitterness of disappointment.

The meaning begins with the first truth she names: sometimes you trust someone who turns out not to be honest. This is the ancient wound of mankind, as old as Eden, when the serpent cloaked falsehood in charm and promise. To be betrayed in trust is not merely to be lied to—it is to have one’s soul shaken, to realize that the ground you stood upon was not stone but shifting sand. Weaver speaks to the human condition, for who among us has not learned this hard lesson in one form or another?

The second truth is harsher still: life does not always turn out as it appears. Promises made, impressions given, expectations set—all these often dissolve when reality reveals itself. The world offers many masks: people who shine with virtue yet harbor deceit, opportunities that gleam with promise yet collapse into dust. Weaver calls this a kind of con, not always malicious, but always painful—the recognition that what is offered is not what is delivered, and that even the simplest trust in appearances can leave scars.

The ancients, too, told such stories. Think of the tale of King Croesus of Lydia, who trusted the Oracle of Delphi when it told him, “If you cross the river, a great empire will fall.” Believing in victory, he marched into war against Persia. Yet it was his own empire that fell. He trusted words without seeking deeper truth, and the cost was ruin. Weaver’s wisdom echoes here: that in life, impressions are not always reality, and to trust blindly is to risk being deceived.

Yet her words end not with despair, but with shared humanity: “We’ve probably all been hurt.” There is comfort in this recognition, for it reminds us that betrayal and disappointment are not signs of weakness, but simply the marks of living. To trust is to risk, and to risk is to be human. No one escapes this wound; but in sharing it, we find kinship, understanding, and the strength to rise again.

The lesson for us is not to harden our hearts into stone, nor to cease trusting altogether. For a life without trust is a barren fortress, safe yet joyless. Rather, the lesson is to temper our trust with wisdom, to test words against actions, to see beyond appearances. And when betrayal comes, as it will, to remember that though we have been hurt, we are not alone, and that even broken trust can become the soil of deeper understanding.

Therefore, remember Weaver’s wisdom: trust wisely, but do not cease to trust. Let your heart remain open, but let your eyes be discerning. Accept that life may sometimes deceive, that impressions may mislead, but also know that hurt can become strength, and disappointment can become wisdom. For in the end, it is not betrayal that defines us, but how we rise after it—whether we choose to close ourselves in bitterness, or to continue walking the road of trust with courage, compassion, and renewed sight.