# Assumptions

## The Ground We Stand On

Every time we speak, we build on unseen foundations. We assume the person listening shares some part of our world: the same words mean roughly the same things, time moves forward for both of us, and tomorrow will probably arrive. These assumptions are so ordinary we rarely notice them, yet they make connection possible.

I have come to think of assumptions as the soil beneath a conversation. Good soil is rich but not rigid. It holds what we plant without claiming to be the plant itself. When we forget this, we treat our assumptions as solid rock. We grow angry when others do not grow exactly as we expected.

## The Quiet Courage of Checking

There is a gentle bravery in pausing to ask, “Am I assuming something here?” The question slows us down. It creates a small clearing where the other person can appear more fully, not as a character in our story but as their own author.

I remember sitting with my grandfather on his porch one summer evening in 2024. He told me the same three stories I had heard many times. Instead of rushing him along, I let myself assume nothing. I listened as though hearing them for the first time. His face softened. The stories felt new to both of us. That small shift in assumption turned repetition into presence.

## What We Carry Lightly

Most of our assumptions are useful. They let us cross the street without calculating every variable. The danger appears only when we defend them too fiercely or refuse to revise them in the light of new evidence.

A lighter touch serves us better. Hold assumptions like a cup of tea: warm, helpful, but set it down when it no longer fits the moment.

*On July 11, 2026, may we tread softly on the assumptions that hold us together.*