Belief Is Not Evidence Dependent

Belief Is Not Evidence Dependent

Thoughts on trust, identity, and the courage to be believed

OMG! I can't believe what just happened!

Look at that sentence. "OMG" is the surprise, the shock of recognition. "I can't believe" is not actually a statement of disbelief — it's an affirmation of the surprise. And "what just happened" confirms that something of significance did just happen.

I bring this up to illustrate something important: belief is confusing.

This is normal. This is human. We express our surprise or shock at what we believe just happened in order to land the emotional weight of it. It's our everyday way of declaring that something matters. It's dramatic sometimes, and sometimes very quiet.

It most often goes quiet when there is risk involved.

If I saw a flying saucer hovering over my house, I would create a thought in my head of either belief or disbelief about what I'm seeing — and possibly hearing. I might choose disbelief if I'm afraid others will think me crazy or hoaxing. I might choose disbelief if I fear an alien invasion, or for any number of other reasons. I might choose belief because I now have an awesome photo for evidence. Belief because I've always wanted to witness an alien encounter. Belief because so many family and friends have affirmed their own belief in alien life forms. Belief because, well — seeing is believing.

There is a lot of experience, thought, memory, culture, and desire behind our tendency to believe or not believe, despite any and all evidence available.

So what does this say about belief? That belief is not evidence dependent. It is not just a matter of seeing, hearing, or feeling the truth or lie of a thing. It's motive — what's in it for me — and it's everything else that compels or prevents us from believing.

But before we go further into the public and the political, I want to stay with the personal for a moment. Because at the root of belief is something more intimate: trust.

I am someone whose radar is designed to see the best in people. I lead with trust. My wife Dale, on the other hand, leads with suspicion — and honestly, she is often far more accurate at reading people than I am. I've had the experience of getting it wrong enough times that I sometimes question my own instincts. When you've trusted and been burned, you begin to second-guess what you see, hear, and feel.

And yet I continue to lead with belief. Not because I haven't learned, but because I've decided that this is how I want to move through the world. That's a choice, and it tells you something important: belief is as much about identity as it is about evidence.

I believe in science and democracy. Not because they're perfect, but because over time they've been consistent enough in their self-correction, their transparency, and their commitment to process that they've earned my belief. Trust is built through consistency. We believe in what shows up for us, again and again, even imperfectly.

I will be honest: since the current administration began, that trust has been challenged in ways I didn't expect. When the institutions you've believed in start to bend under political pressure, it tests something deep. Not just your belief in them — but your belief in yourself for having believed.

Now let me turn to something more troubling. Not the slow erosion of trust, but its opposite: instant disbelief.

What does it take to disbelieve something the moment you hear it — before you've weighed any evidence, before you've sat with the claim for even a breath?

I think instant disbelief comes from people who are in a firm, defended space of identity. Think of the traditionally macho man who hears a woman's account of abuse. Think of the MAGA loyalist who hears testimony that threatens the narrative they've built their worldview around. Think of the person who has committed the very behaviors being described. A man who has been abusive to women will often justify that behavior by placing the blame on the woman, because he is unable — or unwilling — to look at himself honestly.

Instant disbelief comes from a long-held position or point of view that, if released, would either destroy identity or admit guilt.

That is why disbelief can be so fierce, so immediate, so immovable. It's not about the evidence at all. It's about self-preservation.

And when disbelief is sustained — when it becomes the institutional and cultural response to a victim's voice — something devastating happens.

The victim loses their voice.

Not all at once. It's a wearing down. Through humiliation. Through constant questioning and suspicion. Through the exhaustion of telling your truth to people who have already decided not to believe you. And when others witness this — when they see what happens to the person who speaks up — they learn something: it's not safe. It's not worth it. Stay quiet.

This is how disbelief becomes cultural.

When the people in power — the ones who do have a voice, who do have a platform — express disbelief and suspicion loudly and publicly, it codifies what victims already understand about their position. They have no voice. They have no standing. And the perpetrators learn something too: that their behavior will not likely be punished. That the system protects them.

We begin to accept that this is just the way it is.

I think about all of this in relation to the testimony of the Epstein victims.

I watched Pam Bondi's hearing with Congress today, and then an interview with the survivors. The contrast was sickening. Here are women who have endured not only the abuse itself, but years of being disbelieved, dismissed, and discredited. And still they come forward. Still they speak.

Why does it take monumentally less evidence to believe the promises of a political candidate than it does to believe one female victim who is backed by hundreds of other victims? What is behind not just disbelief, but instant disbelief?

This is a question posed by the victims themselves, and by anyone advocating for justice on their behalf.

Frankly, the reason for the disbelief seems to stem from guilt, self-protection, and self-interest. Evidence is irrelevant. And when that disbelief, for those reasons, comes from people in power, the fight becomes beyond measure.

But here is what gives me hope.

These women are not backing away.

They are working on Virginia's Law to remove the statute of limitations on sex crimes. They are doing interviews, working with lawyers, being open and public about their experiences. They refuse to be disempowered by the instant disbelievers. They refuse to be silenced by the powerful protecting their own interests.

Years ago, there was the "Me Too" movement. That was a necessary reckoning — a collective exhale of truth that changed how we talk about abuse and power. What these women are doing now is the next step. Not just speaking up, but building the legal and structural scaffolding to ensure that speaking up leads somewhere. That belief is not just offered, but codified. That the system changes.

This is what courageous belief looks like. Not the easy kind — not the belief that costs you nothing. The kind that risks everything. The kind that says: I will not stop telling my truth, even if you refuse to hear it. Even if you punish me for it. Even if the people in power line up against me.

And this is where I land, after a difficult day of watching powerful people behave disgracefully: belief is a choice. Disbelief is also a choice. And the reasons behind each reveal everything about who we are.

I choose to believe the women. I choose to believe what their courage is telling us about the world we're living in, and the one we could build.

Because in the end, belief isn't just about what's true. It's about what we're willing to stand for.

Created by Linda L McDonald at TULA Light and the Mystic Citizen