Betrayal Is An Inside Job

We think of betrayal as something others do to us, but the deepest wounds often come from within. This is a story about recognizing, breaking, and finally healing the cycle of self-betrayal.

Why Betrayal is on My Mind

Betrayal has been pressing itself into my awareness lately, showing up in ways both personal and global.

At Sundance, a wolf spider darted into my tent. We locked eyes, struck an unspoken pact: I wouldn’t crush it, and it wouldn’t bite me. A fragile trust. A moment later, I guided it out, both of us keeping our word. But in the pitch-black heat of the sweat lodge, there was no such agreement. A scorpion, overwhelmed, struck one of us.

Beyond ceremony, the world mirrors the same dynamic. This week’s “sotu” twisted reality—transgenic mice misrepresented as transgender, pediatric cancer funding slashed while a child with cancer was paraded as inspiration, unelected bureaucrats condemned while the cameraman panned to the broligarch in the gallery. Promises to tame inflation, yet eggs have doubled in price. America’s closest allies now locked in a trade war. Zelensky, stranded.

Even in the mundane, betrayal slithers in. A stranger recently messaged me, claiming to represent the Illuminati, offering untold riches for just a bit of personal information—an illusion of opportunity, a dressed-up con.

Everywhere I turn, trust is given and broken. Promises made, then abandoned. Deception, self-interest, survival.

And so, I find myself writing about betrayal—not just what others do to us, but what we do to ourselves.

Because if betrayal is an inside job, then so is trust. And maybe, so is redemption.

The river does not betray the mountain when it carves through it; it simply follows its path. Sometimes what we call betrayal is just life moving in ways we do not yet understand. Photo by Francesco Ungaro

Betrayal has been one of my greatest teachers. It’s worn different masks—sometimes sudden and brutal, sometimes slow and suffocating. It’s universal, weaving through families, friendships, workplaces, and love. It whispers through broken promises and unspoken words. It erodes trust quietly, almost imperceptibly, until one day, you realize the ground beneath you has disappeared.

If betrayal had a color, it would be a sickly shade of green—the cousin of jealousy, the father of shame. It lingers in the shadows, distorting reality, making you question yourself. It feeds on the space where trust once lived, twisting your hopes, expectations, and the stories you told yourself about how things should have been.

The Moment It All Shifted

Recently, someone framed me as the one who had broken trust. The irony? From my perspective, they were the one who had done just that—not just to me, but to an entire group. Yet, they saw themselves as the victim.

And that made me pause.

How often do we do this? How often do we cast ourselves as the betrayed to avoid admitting our own complicity? How often do we hold onto our version of the story because facing another truth would shatter something we desperately need to believe?

It’s an uncomfortable question. But it’s one worth asking.

The Betrayal That Broke Me

Then there was another betrayal—one far more personal. Not the kind that blindsides you like a lightning strike, but the kind that slowly tightens around you, like a web woven strand by strand.

I had spent months, maybe years, caught in this web. Manipulation, deception, doubt. I second-guessed myself at every turn. And the cruelest part? The voice keeping me trapped wasn’t just theirs—it was mine.

“Maybe it’s not so bad.”

“Maybe you’re overreacting.”

“Maybe you should just endure.”

So I did. I softened my boundaries. Rationalized red flags. Convinced myself that patience was wisdom and that staying silent was strength.

And then it hit me—the real betrayal wasn’t theirs. It was mine.

Betrayal doesn’t start when someone deceives us. It starts the moment we abandon ourselves—the moment we ignore our instincts, suppress our truth, and pretend we don’t see what’s right in front of us.

The moment I saw that, everything changed.

I didn’t need to prove the betrayal. I didn’t need closure or justice. I just needed to walk away.

It felt like standing before Medusa—knowing that if I looked back, if I sought one last piece of validation, I’d turn to stone, frozen in place forever.

But the moment I chose myself, the spell broke.

Who Really Betrays Who?

Betrayal is never as simple as victim and villain. Sometimes, we’re the ones accusing. Sometimes, we’re the ones being accused. And sometimes, the lines blur so much that we don’t even know where we stand.

Judas’ story is a tragic one—not just because he betrayed Jesus, but because, in the end, he betrayed himself. He was so attached to how he thought things should be that when reality didn’t match, he made a choice he couldn’t take back.

But here’s the part that haunts me: Judas was necessary. Without him, the story doesn’t unfold the way it does. Without the betrayal, there’s no crucifixion. No resurrection. No transformation.

And that makes me wonder—how many of our own betrayals, painful as they are, are part of something bigger?

It doesn’t make them right. It doesn’t erase the harm. But maybe it changes what we do with it.

Because if betrayal is an inside job, maybe forgiveness is too.

The Small Betrayals That Cut the Deepest

Not all betrayals are grand. Some are so small, so subtle, that we don’t even recognize them.

I betray myself when I doomscroll, giving my energy to outrage instead of creation.

I betray myself when I procrastinate, letting fear dictate my inaction.

I betray myself when I say yes when I want to say no, when I soften my truth to make others comfortable.

Every time I break a promise to myself, I send a deeper message: You can’t be trusted.

And if I do this often enough, I become primed for bigger betrayals. I allow the unacceptable because I’ve trained myself to ignore discomfort. I cling to illusions because I’ve taught myself to doubt what I already know.

But this isn’t just personal. It plays out at every level.

The people feeling politically betrayed? Many ignored the warning signs. They rationalized the compromises. They softened their boundaries, convincing themselves maybe it’s not so bad.

Nations betray themselves the same way individuals do—through incremental self-abandonment, through the slow erosion of truth, through silence that makes the next betrayal inevitable.

The Only Betrayal That Matters

Here’s what I’ve come to believe:

Betrayal, in all its forms, is a lesson in self-trust.

We cannot control whether people will deceive us, abandon us, or act out of self-interest. But we can control whether we stay. Whether we make excuses. Whether we let betrayal define us—or whether we use it as fuel to choose differently next time.

So maybe the real betrayal isn’t what others did to us. It’s what we keep doing to ourselves.

And the real redemption?

It’s knowing that no matter how many times we’ve abandoned ourselves before—we can always choose to return.