safety

Last Updated on February 11, 2026

Deciding—and remembering—that I am safe, and that I feel safe, is powerful.

Safety isn’t equally available. Many people are living with real, ongoing threats from what some call “law enforcement”, extreme violence, brutal harassment, or many other forms of abuse. I do not want to try to spiritualize that away or pretend anyone can “think” their way into safety.

I do see the way I can get frozen in fear even when danger isn’t imminent—how my nervous system stays braced for impact—and how so much in our culture benefits from that state of bracing. I imagine the energies invested in me holding onto a story that I am not safe. I imagine all that is sold to me in the name of safety and protection. I think a lot of what’s bought and sold as “safety” provides a false sense of safety.

I find that learning how to be safe for myself—understanding the deeper layers of how I can keep my own body, mind, and spirit resourced and steady—feels much better and is more effective. Looking inward for the roots of fear and the sensations of unsafety, I find time after time where I voluntarily abandoned myself and disregarded my intuition to be seen as kind, polite, agreeable, etc. 

There are times when people, places, events, and relationships are legitimately not safe. I’m also interested in the discernment between responding to present danger versus responding to possible, imagined, or future danger.

Whether danger is real or imagined, whether threat is imminent or distant, whether I’m well-equipped or ill-equipped, there are limits to what I can control. I can’t control everything outside my domain—but I can choose how I meet this moment, and what I practice inside my own body.

I notice that when I give myself time and peace to sit and be, when I allow my fears to quiet down, when I tune in to what emanates from the earth, the air, the water—the elements and the natural world—I can step out of the constant safe/not-safe/maybe-safe loop I sometimes live inside of.

There are many real and imagined voices saying what’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with other people, why you are the way you are, why they are the way they are, what you should do about it, etc. I’ve more recently become tired of trying to get my own story straight—tired of trying to tell it, convince anyone of anything, exhausted by the idea that I must explain or define my nuanced experience of life to anyone. I know my story and all my details matter, but I’m willing to let go of monitoring how I’m seen, understood, or perceived. I care—but not to the point of harming myself about it any longer. I’m willing to be more peaceful with myself.

This realization feels like turning a big ship of thought and behavior around. I don’t know how long it will take or what intricate lessons I’ll learn along the way, but I want to practice this: I am safe to let everyone else be as they are. I am safe to accept the consequences of my actions without defense. I am safe to witness violence, threat, and injustice—and, when it’s wise and possible, keep my heart open without being consumed or shut down by anger and devastation. I am safe to be loving when people want to fight with me. I am safe to be kind when my feelings are hurt. I am safe to turn down the volume on fear and vigilance in the moments when I don’t actually need to defend my life or someone else’s.

I can find things to argue with in these words. I can find proof—in the details of stories—that tells me I am not safe and must be vigilant at all times. And I can also hold the hand of the younger person who got scared for very real reasons and reassure her: the trauma is not happening right now.

At this moment, it’s okay to soften. It’s okay to notice the ways we are supported, seen, loved, and appreciated. Allowing for and creating those moments is an antidote to fear. I can be that antidote for myself—and, when appropriate, for others.