I. The Human Tendency to Assume

“That sounds a lot like projection mixed with a bit of paranoia.”

It’s a line that sounds like it could be uttered by Sherlock Holmes or perhaps Bones from Star Trek, slicing through a web of miscommunication with brutal clarity. But it’s also something we might say—quietly or not—when we recognize a pattern in ourselves or others: the habit of assuming we know what others are thinking, and that it isn’t good.

At the intersection of projection and paranoia, we find a peculiar psychological phenomenon—one that not only warps our perception but sabotages our relationships. Projection is the psychological defense mechanism in which we attribute our own unwanted feelings, thoughts, or motives to someone else. We might accuse others of judging us, when in fact, we’re judging ourselves and can’t bear the weight of it. Paranoia, in its everyday form, isn’t always about tinfoil hats or grand conspiracies—it can be the quiet, anxious certainty that others are silently criticizing us, thinking ill of us, or preparing some kind of emotional ambush.

Often, these distortions arise not from malice, but from the echo chamber of our own conscience. When we assume the worst, it may not be because the other person is actually malevolent—it may be because we feel we are guilty. And rather than acknowledge that pain directly, we externalize it.

This is where guilt projection and transference enter the scene. Guilt projection occurs when we unconsciously defend ourselves against feelings of guilt by attributing those feelings to others. Transference, a term coined by Freud, is when we redirect emotions from one person or experience onto another. It’s a kind of emotional time travel, where past hurts sneak into present interactions and misguide them.

But here’s the twist: sometimes our assumptions are correct. We predict someone’s response, and when it happens, we think, “Aha, I knew it.” But did we know it—or did our expectation shape the encounter to ensure it unfolded the way we feared? As the philosopher Epictetus reminds us, “It is not what is said to us that matters, but how we respond to it.”

So let’s start here—with the humble question: What if the hostility we perceive isn’t real? What if it’s our own guilt echoing back at us? This is not just an abstract idea; it’s deeply practical and deeply human. And in the sections that follow, we’ll explore how this tendency plays out in relationships, advice-giving, religious assumptions, and personal transformation.

As Captain Jean-Luc Picard once said to Data, “It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness; that is life.” The same is true in how we relate to others: it is possible to have noble intentions and still cause harm—especially when we let assumptions stand in for understanding.

Why This Matters: Navigating and Nurturing Relationships

Why should we care about projection, paranoia, or the assumptions we make about others’ intentions? Because these habits can either nourish or quietly sabotage our most important relationships.

Imagine a conversation with a close friend or family member. You’re anxious about something you did—maybe it violated your values, or maybe you simply feel ashamed. You brace yourself, imagining their judgment. But instead of listening, you react to what you think they will say. You interrupt. You become defensive. You shut down. Before a real conversation has begun, it’s already derailed.

This is how relationships corrode—not usually from spectacular betrayals or Hollywood-style betrayals, but from repeated moments of misperception. Assumptions become a substitute for empathy. Projection becomes a wall against vulnerability. In theological terms, we replace grace with judgment—our own.

But the same principles that undermine relationships can also redeem them, if we reverse the lens. What happens when we practice emotional self-awareness, and we pause before assuming? What happens when we ask, “Am I projecting? Am I reacting to them—or to my own story?” This simple discipline—though far from easy—can radically transform how we relate to spouses, children, siblings, coworkers, and even those we disagree with ideologically or theologically.

Consider the case of a parent whose child comes out to them as trans or announces an unexpected life decision. The parent may fear they’re being judged, or assume their child expects judgment. If either one reacts to those assumptions rather than what’s actually said, the conversation collapses. But if even one of them can step back and say, “Help me understand,” a bridge begins to form.

In relationships—especially intimate ones—this work is not optional. It’s essential. Because every close relationship will encounter misunderstanding. The difference between a relationship that deepens and one that breaks down often comes down to this: Do we believe the best in each other, even when it would be easier to assume the worst?

And this is why we must explore this topic, not just intellectually, but personally. If we can become more attuned to our projections and more generous in our assumptions, we create the conditions for connection—not just correctness.

As Gandalf wisely cautioned in The Lord of the Rings, “Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. Even the very wise cannot see all ends.” Perhaps we should not be too quick to deal out relational exile, either.

II. Personal Narrative as Case Study

To move from theory to practice, let’s begin with a story. My own.

Some time ago, I found myself offering advice to my brother-in-law during a difficult season in his marriage. They were caught in a painful cycle of separation and reconciliation. Out of what I thought was concern—and let’s be honest, a bit of pride—I gave him the “standard Christian advice”: stick it out. Marriage is sacred. Try harder. Think of the kids. And while those sentiments weren’t wrong per se, they weren’t helpful either. The marriage ultimately ended in divorce.

Later, when another friend confided in me about their own marital breakdown, I had a visceral reaction. I went the other way—this time suggesting divorce. Why? Because the last time I gave the “stay together” advice, it didn’t work out. I was trying to avoid failure by overcorrecting. But it wasn’t just overcorrection—it was guilt speaking. I wasn’t responding to them. I was responding to me.

And in both situations, I had failed to take into account something crucial: neither of these individuals shared my moral framework. They weren’t Christians. My advice was filtered through a lens they didn’t use, values they didn’t hold. I was projecting not only my own convictions but also my personal need to feel useful—to be the wise voice in the room.

Eventually, after reflecting on these and other experiences, I reached a quiet resolution: I would stop giving advice—at least, uninvited. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I finally understood something essential: unsolicited advice is often a form of control dressed up as concern. I didn’t want to be what Michael Bungay Stanier in his book “The Coaching Habit” calls an “advice monster”—someone whose identity is bound up in solving rather than supporting.

What changed? Self-awareness. And the dawning realization that often when I thought I was fighting someone else’s battle, I was actually fighting my own guilt, fear, or shame. This isn’t just a pattern I’ve recognized in myself. It’s a universal temptation: to give advice rooted in anxiety rather than clarity. To judge others in order to absolve ourselves. To assume others will react negatively to our actions because we feel conflicted about them.

As Captain Picard once said, “It is possible to make no mistakes and still lose.” But the corollary is also true: You can make a mistake and still grow. That growth begins with the hard, humbling realization: sometimes the problem isn’t their reaction—it’s our expectation of it.

And that is where projection often begins—not in malice, but in unresolved pain.

III. The Illusion of Knowing Others’ Thoughts

There’s a kind of quiet arrogance in the human mind—a belief that we can see clearly into someone else’s head. We say things like, “I know exactly what he’s going to say,” or “She’s going to judge me,” or “They won’t understand.” And sometimes, we’re right. But what if we’re only right because we’ve primed the encounter to unfold exactly as we feared?

Let’s suppose you anticipate someone will criticize your decision. Instead of opening a space for dialogue, you enter the conversation defensively, perhaps even aggressively. They, sensing hostility or judgment from you, become guarded in return. Voila—the prophecy fulfills itself. But did they really begin in judgment, or did your assumption push them into it?

This phenomenon is a well-documented psychological trap. In behavioral science, it’s known as a self-fulfilling prophecy—a belief or expectation that brings about its own confirmation simply because we believe it. In theology and philosophy, it’s also a kind of ontological sleight of hand: we treat possibilities as certainties, and then blame reality for conforming to our fears.

In my own life, I’ve seen how this illusion plays out in familial relationships. I once approached my brother about my divorce, already armed for a theological battle. I knew what he’d say. I knew his views. I was so certain, in fact, that I began the conversation with a defense. Naturally, he responded with a counterattack, and before long, we were locked in an argument that neither of us truly wanted.

Did I predict him correctly? Arguably, yes. But here’s the kicker: I never gave him a chance to be anything else. My assumption acted like a script I handed him, and then I faulted him for reading his lines.

Some might argue, “Well, you were just being realistic. You knew his views already.” And that’s true—to a point. But realism becomes fatalism when it closes off the possibility of change, growth, or grace. We might know someone’s tendencies, but we don’t know the whole of them—not their current heart, not their internal wrestling, not their capacity for surprise.

The problem, then, is not just assuming we’re right, but refusing to let others be wrong in a new way, or right in a new context.

Science fiction often wrestles with this illusion of omniscience. In Minority Report, the PreCrime unit arrests people before they commit crimes, based on predicted future behavior. It’s a chilling allegory of what happens when we treat assumptions as certainties: justice becomes injustice. So too in personal relationships—when we act on assumptions, we deny others the chance to be better, more gracious, or more nuanced than our fears suggest.

In day-to-day life, this means that when we approach conversations with others—especially difficult ones—we must resist the urge to play mental puppeteer. We must create space for unpredictability, for grace, and even for disagreement without warfare. Otherwise, we risk fighting shadows of our own making. Or worse—we become the very person we feared they were, simply because we acted first.

IV. When Christians Judge… or Are Judged

There’s a strange irony that comes with being known as a Christian: people often assume you’re judging them—even when you’re not. Sometimes, even before a word is spoken, a wall goes up. I’ve been on both sides of that wall.

In many cases, simply identifying as a Christian is enough for others to assign you a mental checklist of positions and opinions. “Oh, so you must think…” is a sentence I’ve heard far too often. There’s a subtle and sometimes overt expectation that Christians are uniform in belief, tone, and reaction. That we’re all walking, talking, theological carbon copies of each other. But we’re not. Christianity is not a hive mind. It contains a tapestry of thought—from contemplative mystics to street preachers, social justice advocates to systematic theologians. Yet the assumptions persist.

People presume judgment. They brace for it. They may even lash out first to preempt it. But often, what they are reacting to is not you—but a projection of their own guilt, or memories of past wounds inflicted by someone else who shared your label.

And again, I’ve done the same. I remember assuming how others would view my divorce—not because they told me, but because I feared judgment. Sometimes I preemptively deflected or defended myself in conversations, expecting condemnation that never came. Other times, I judged other Christians, assuming they would be legalistic or rigid. And here’s the confession: sometimes they were. But not always. And more importantly, I never gave them the space to be anything else.

It’s a two-way street. Christians can assume the worst about others, especially if we sense sin or struggle. But others also assume the worst about Christians. Both assumptions distort the potential for grace.

Let’s take a theological step back. In John 8, when a woman caught in adultery is dragged before Jesus, the crowd expects a righteous verdict. And technically, they’re not wrong—the law permits it. But Jesus doesn’t reinforce their expectations. Instead, He flips the script: “Let the one without sin cast the first stone.” In that moment, He exposes not just the woman’s guilt—but the crowd’s projection.

Jesus’ model is worth noting: He does not condone the sin, but neither does He wield judgment as a cudgel. He meets both guilt and assumption with grace.

In today’s climate, it’s easy for Christians to be seen as the advice monsters or the judgment police. Sometimes that’s because of real harm done. But sometimes it’s simply guilt projection. People already feel the weight of their decisions, and your presence reminds them of a moral framework they’ve stepped outside of—even if you say nothing. It’s as if your silence accuses them louder than your words ever could.

In such moments, we must ask: Am I being a mirror, or are they projecting a monster?

That’s why discernment is key. It’s not just about what’s true, but how and when to speak, or whether to speak at all. As the apostle Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 13, if we do not have love, our wisdom becomes noise. And practically, this means that being a Christian should not mean being predictably judgmental. It should mean being predictably gracious. Because at the heart of Christian faith is the concept of agape—self-giving love that seeks the good of the other, not the triumph of the self.

We are not called to be arbiters of shame. We are called to be vessels of grace. As Obi-Wan once warned Anakin, “Only a Sith deals in absolutes.” It might be wise to remember that if our moral certainty turns us into emotional Sith Lords, we’ve missed the point. The Gospel is not just a diagnosis—it’s an invitation to healing.

V. Psychological Roots — Guilt and Projection

It wasn’t until I went through a divorce myself that I began to fully understand the weight of the advice I had once given to others. Before, I thought I was being helpful—offering clarity, moral grounding, even comfort. But from this side of the experience, I can now see how that advice might have landed. And honestly, it makes me wince.

They say experience is the best teacher, and in this case, it taught me through a kind of poetic justice. I got a taste of my own medicine.

I remembered conversations where I encouraged friends or family to “stick it out,” to do what was “right,” to not give up. It was said with sincerity and conviction. But in hindsight, it was also said with distance—from their context, their emotional state, and their lived reality. I gave answers without sitting long enough with the questions.

Then came my turn. And as people began offering me advice—some helpful, much of it not—I started to feel what it was like to be on the receiving end of certainty. It didn’t feel like support. It felt like pressure. At times, it felt like being reduced to a spiritual object lesson in someone else’s theology. And in those moments, I realized: This is what I did to them.

There was no cruelty in my earlier advice, no ill intent. But that’s precisely the problem: you can cause harm without intending to, especially when you’re speaking from a place of unexamined guilt or fear.

Looking back, I now see that some of my urgency to “save” their marriages wasn’t just about their wellbeing—it was also about me. About my need to feel right. About keeping the moral universe neat and intact. And perhaps, more than I realized at the time, my hope for their marriage was a subconscious hope for mine.

I think the source of my guilt was hidden from me. At the time I offered advice, I wasn’t fully aware of the deep and unresolved problems in my own marriage. There was no clear diagnosis, no moment of clarity. But perhaps, on a subconscious level, I sensed that something was broken. Maybe I believed that if their marriages could be salvaged, then so could mine. It was hope, displaced and disowned, masquerading as moral guidance. But since I couldn’t even recognize the issues in my own relationship, I certainly wasn’t in a place to give wise counsel about theirs. Whatever hope or guilt I felt had no words—it operated beneath the surface, whispering through my advice without my conscious consent.

Psychologically, this is called guilt projection—a defense mechanism in which we unconsciously transfer our own conflicted emotions onto someone else. We give advice not just to guide, but to resolve something in ourselves—to manage our own discomfort with their decisions or their pain. It’s a subtle form of emotional self-soothing, but the cost is high: it often distances us from the very people we think we’re helping.

Now, when I reflect on the advice I once gave, I don’t condemn myself. I understand. But I also carry a deeper empathy—and a commitment to speak more carefully, to listen more fully, and to let people carry their own stories without feeling the need to write the ending for them.

Sometimes, you don’t understand the weight of your words until you feel them from the other side. And when you do, if you’re open to it, that weight can teach you something precious: humility.

VI. The Cost of Assuming Malice

There’s a statement called Hanlon’s Razor, which states: “Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.” But in relationships, it’s not usually incompetence that we misinterpret—it’s misunderstanding, awkwardness, or simply difference. And yet, we so often assume malice. We assume the worst of others’ motives, especially those closest to us. This has been one of the most painful lessons of my life—not in theory, but in practice.

When I was going through my divorce, I already knew what my brother was going to say. He had strong, clear theological views: divorce was wrong. Marriage was for life. God could fix anything. In his eyes, I was wrong to leave. And he said as much. But here’s what still haunts me: I didn’t let the conversation unfold naturally. I didn’t even give him a chance to be anything other than what I expected. I anticipated judgment and reacted to it before it even arrived. I was fighting a battle that, by starting it early, I may have guaranteed would be fought. And I recognize now—I projected my own guilt into that conversation. It wasn’t just that I expected him to judge me; I had already judged myself.

But the damage wasn’t limited to that conversation. It echoed outward. My kids, for example, anticipated how their mother and I would react to their decision to marry young—and elope. They didn’t tell us. They feared rejection, disappointment, perhaps even anger. And while their mother responded harshly, I didn’t. I was stunned, yes. But ultimately, I was happy for them. Here’s the sad part: I don’t think they remember that. Their assumption had already colored the memory. In their minds, I was still cast as the disapproving parent. My actual words and reactions didn’t make it into the edit.

That’s the cost of assuming malice. It short-circuits real relationship. It prevents grace. It denies the other person the dignity of their own words and choices. It freezes people in the roles we’ve assigned them. And it doesn’t stop there. In other cases—especially with my trans kids—there’s been a generational echo of this same assumption. They fear my family will judge them harshly or reject them outright. And honestly, I don’t know if they’re right or not. I haven’t talked to my siblings deeply enough to know if they’ve grown, softened, or simply stayed the same. But I do know this: assuming the worst doesn’t create safety. It creates distance.

When we assume malice, we close off conversation. We deny people the chance to be better, to surprise us, or even to change. We confuse caution with cynicism and lose the opportunity for connection.

But here’s where it gets harder: sometimes people do mean harm. Sometimes people are rigid, unkind, or unrepentantly judgmental. And yet, even then, assuming malice can distort our response. It makes us bristle, attack, or withdraw before we’ve even heard what they truly mean. And in doing so, we become part of the same cycle we claim to resist.

In one of the more introspective moments of The Matrix Reloaded, the Oracle tells Neo, “You’ve already made the choice. Now you have to understand it.” Many of us live as if we’ve already made a choice about others: we know who they are, what they’ll say, and how they’ll hurt us. And because we’ve already decided, we no longer listen. And that’s the great relational tragedy—not that people fail us (though they do), but that we stop giving them the chance not to.

VII. Toward a Better Way — Humility, Curiosity, and Noble Intent

So if projection and assumption are so common—so easy—what’s the alternative? How do we avoid falling into the trap of imagining the worst and reacting before the first word is spoken?

The answer isn’t a technique. It’s a posture. Humility. Curiosity. And a deep-seated commitment to assuming noble intent.

Let’s start with humility. It’s not self-deprecation. It’s the radical honesty to admit: I might be wrong about this person. I might not know the full story. I might even be projecting. It’s the recognition that our inner narrator is not infallible. Humility creates space for others to be more than the worst version of themselves—or more than the version we’ve created in our heads.

Curiosity is its natural companion. It says, I wonder what they’re actually thinking. I wonder what story they’re carrying. I wonder how they’re experiencing me. Curiosity slows us down. It turns assumption into inquiry. It allows conversations to unfold, rather than collapse under the weight of anticipation.

But perhaps most countercultural today is the practice of assuming noble intent. That doesn’t mean pretending everyone is kind or wise. It means choosing, when in doubt, to interpret their words as coming from a place of care, not condemnation. Even if they miss the mark, even if they offend or confuse us, we begin with grace.

Why? Because we often rise to meet the expectations others have of us. When someone expects the worst of us, we feel cornered. But when they assume good intentions—even when we falter—we often find the strength to live up to that trust.

Think of the contrast: a child expected to fail often does. A child believed in, often doesn’t. The same goes for adults.

This doesn’t mean we should be naïve. It means we lead with hope rather than fear. In The Princess Bride, Westley tells Buttercup, “Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” But the film, in its ironic charm, also makes clear: pain doesn’t cancel out love. In fact, love—true, sacrificial love—is what redeems pain. This is agape love. Not sentimental, not weak. A strong, stubborn love that keeps showing up. A love that risks being wrong in the hope of being truly present. The type of Love God has for us.

To live this way requires spiritual and emotional discipline. It requires an ongoing confrontation with our own guilt, our own past assumptions, and our own unmet needs. But when we do that work, something remarkable happens: we become safe people for others to be real with. And here’s the paradox: when we stop trying to be right, people are more willing to hear what we have to say. When we stop leading with judgment, others let down their guard. When we ask, “Help me understand,” instead of “Why did you do that?”, we open the door to healing.

To live this way is not weakness—it is wisdom. It is strength under control. It is choosing relationship over reassurance, listening over labeling, and trust over tribal certainty. It is, as Simon Sinek might say, an infinite game: not one we play to win, but one we play to keep playing—together.

VIII. Conclusion — From Triggers to Transformation

So where does all of this leave us? Perhaps with a challenge—not to be more certain, but to be more aware. Not to correct others faster, but to notice what’s happening within us before we react. Because this journey—from projection to presence, from assumption to understanding—isn’t about managing other people. It’s about managing ourselves.

There’s a temptation in modern discourse to center the language of triggers. “I was triggered,” we say, and often what we mean is, “Someone made me feel something I didn’t want to feel.” But healing—true healing—means learning to sit with discomfort without collapsing into defensiveness. It means noticing the feeling, but not making it someone else’s fault. It means tracing the thread inward rather than hurling it outward.

Your triggers aren’t everyone else’s responsibility. They’re a signal—a light on the dashboard—not a weapon. And that’s the shift: from being driven by guilt, fear, or old wounds, to being led by grace, humility, and love.

Agape love—self-giving, self-emptying love—is the only force strong enough to pull us out of the cycle of projection and assumption. It allows us to stop bracing for offense and start listening for truth. It allows us to say, “I might be wrong, but I want to understand.”

I’ve seen what happens when we live without that posture—when relationships fracture because no one is willing to pause long enough to ask, “Is this really what they meant?” or “Am I hearing them—or my own fear?”

And I’ve also seen what happens when people make space for each other, when they give each other the benefit of the doubt, when they choose compassion even when it would be easier to walk away.

The goal isn’t to never get hurt. The goal is to live in such a way that even when we are, our response is not dictated by pain, but by principle.

So if you’ve ever felt like someone judged you, ask gently: Was it them—or was it you judging yourself first? If you’ve ever been dismissed or misunderstood, ask: Did I allow the conversation to unfold—or did I write the ending before the first scene began?

And when someone reacts harshly to your presence, your values, your silence—remember: you might be their mirror. And that mirror might be reflecting something they haven’t yet faced.

Your job isn’t to defend yourself at every turn. Your job—if you’re willing to take it up—is to be a presence of grace in a world bracing for war. As Paul once wrote, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”

Let’s not make enemies out of ghosts. Let’s learn to pause. To breathe. To ask a better question. To assume noble intent. Because that assumption—the one that love is still possible—isn’t just strategic. It’s sacred.

Dénouement

I’m not sure if anything I’ve shared here will help you. Maybe it won’t. But life is a journey, and sometimes even the weary old beggars along the path have something worth saying. If these reflections offer you anything, let it be a walking stick, not a road map—a companion for the path ahead, not a command about where to go. I share them not as an advice monster, but in humility. Because even as a would-be wizard, I do not know all ends. I’m still learning. Still stumbling. Still trying to see clearly through the fog of my own projections. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for today.

Excerpt

We often assume others are judging us—when it’s really our own guilt speaking. This post explores how projection distorts relationships, and why choosing humility and assuming noble intent might be the bravest, wisest thing we can do.