Post #275
900 words; 4 minutes to read
By Emily Stewart, Associate Editor
Summary: While trust involves risk, especially in a place like prison, so does withholding it. A study from Norway highlights rare moments where trust emerged in custody, inviting us to consider what might be possible if trust were taken seriously in institutions so often defined by risk management and suspicion.
Think about the last time someone truly trusted you – not because they had to, but because they chose to. Maybe it was a friend who confided in you, a boss who gave you a big opportunity, or a family member who believed in your potential even when you doubted yourself.
Trust can be powerful. It can motivate us to rise to the occasion, to see ourselves in a new light, and even imagine a future we hadn’t thought possible.
And beyond those big moments, trust shows up in everyday life. We rely on it constantly: when we board a bus, accept a diagnosis, or send a child to school. The truth is, we rarely have full knowledge or certainty about how things will turn out – which is precisely why trust matters. It’s what allows us to move forward anyway.
But what happens when trust is in short supply? And what does it mean for people trying to change their lives in places where trust is scarce – like prison?
A Norwegian Study on Trust in Prison
In a small, qualitative study, Dr. Thomas Ugelvik, a criminologist at the University of Oslo, interviewed 14 incarcerated men about their experiences of desistance – the process of moving away from crime.
Most participants described prison as a place defined by distrust: officers were risk-averse, surveillance replaced discretion, and relationships felt functional, not personal. And yet, some still described rare moments when trust was extended – moments that invite us to reflect on what might be possible if trust were taken seriously in carceral settings.
Trust and the Work of Change
Desistance refers to the process of moving away from crime and building a new, law-abiding life. Researchers often describe it in three stages:
- Primary desistance: the initial stopping or reduction of criminal behaviour.
- Secondary desistance: a shift in identity, when someone starts to see themselves as a non-offender.
- Tertiary desistance: when others recognize and affirm the individual’s change.
Ugelvik suggests that trust plays a key role in this third stage. When individuals are treated as capable and trustworthy – and given the opportunity to prove it – such recognition can help reinforce their efforts to change.
Rare, but Transformative
For most of the men in Ugelvik’s study, prison was full of suspicion: officers looked for risk, not change; relationships were shaped by rules and control; and efforts at self-improvement often went unrecognized.
And yet, a few participants described rare moments when trust was extended. These stood out precisely because they cut against the grain of everyday prison life.
- Arne contrasted his experiences across different high-security prisons. In one, staff dismissed his claims of wanting to change – leaving him feeling unsupported, with no option but to rely entirely on himself. But after being transferred to a smaller unit, staff took a more relational approach: they shared meals, spent time with inmates, and built everyday connections. This recognition led to an unusually early opportunity for leave – but for Arne, the real impact was emotional. Someone finally believed his efforts were genuine.
- Bård found trust through education. His exceptional academic performance caught the attention of both teachers and staff, who responded by giving him unusual freedom to manage his own schedule. When they later checked in, they saw that he was keeping his word – studying late into the evening, completing every assignment. This recognition created a trust-building spiral: strong performance led to responsibility, which he confirmed through consistency, reinforcing his sense of reliability and self-worth.
- Florent, nearing the end of a long sentence, faced a crisis when his teenage son became involved in gangs. For months, his family struggled to keep the boy safe, sometimes searching the city late into the night. Because Florent had built credibility with staff, they occasionally granted him temporary leave to support his family. For him, it was a moment of compassion in a system usually defined by suspicion: ‘they understood that a crisis is a crisis.’
These stories suggests that under certain conditions, trust can be extended. And when it is, it can foster motivation, connection, and identity change. In this sense, trust creates a feedback loop: being trusted can encourage people to become more trustworthy in return.
But these moments were not the norm. Trust in prison was the exception – and that’s what made it so powerful. Precisely because it was so rare, when trust did appear it carried unusual weight, offering recognition that could reinforce participants’ sense of change.
The Risk of Distrust
Of course, trust carries risk. But so does distrust. When trust is off the table and suspicion guides every decision, we risk deepening alienation, fueling resentment, and ultimately reproducing the very harms we claim to address.
So, we’re left with a question: If trust supports growth in everyday life (such as in families, workplaces, schools), why would it be any less meaningful in carceral settings? And this question extends beyond prison walls to community supervision, where parole and probation often operate on a foundation of surveillance and suspicion rather than encouragement and recognition.
Maybe the real question isn’t whether trust belongs in prison – but whether real change is possible without it.
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