The Importance of Safe Spaces

I didn’t realize how valuable having a designated safe space was until I was without one. Throughout most of my college experience, I have been able to rely upon on-campus housing to keep a roof over my head, but right before COVID hit, I transferred to a new college where, suddenly, my free winter and summer break housing that I received through campus employment was no longer an option. I either had to come up with a few thousand dollars to secure over-break housing or find somewhere else to live. Luckily, a relative could offer me housing in a room they normally rented out, but because of the pandemic, they weren’t comfortable having just anyone in their house, and the room was mine for a few hundred a month.

As a victim of child abuse besides my mental health diagnoses, I had never had a relatively secure housing arrangement until I moved into that house. For the first time, I could curate a room that was entirely my own; a space I knew I would not be thrown out of or asked to leave, and for the first time, I was able to do some of the most important healing I’ve experienced yet. This was the first moment in my life where I wasn’t just getting by- it was a moment of pause, enough stillness for me to do more than catch my breath, but a chance for me to learn how to breathe in a new way. This room became my safe space.

But what did I have to call a safe space before this? Because we all have different lived experiences and amounts of privilege, our safe spaces are going to look very different from each others’. The year before I started college, I was living on my friend’s couch, and I spent countless hours, at least three times a day, writing in my journal when I wasn’t at work, serving as a waitress to mostly upper-middle-class and upper-class families. That journal was the most important space I had at that time. I filled every page with my thoughts—what I did that day, how I was feeling, what music I was listening to, what was going on in my life. That journal made a dark period of my life bearable and created a space for me to reflect, ground myself, and breathe. Before that, when I was in high school, still living directly in my every-day trauma, the soccer field was my safe space. Soccer gave me a place to move my body, exert my frustrations, build community, and feel safe.

As my life has changed, and luckily has improved for the better, I’ve outgrown some safe spaces, which is totally okay. We are ever-changing beings, constantly flowing and moving with the world, our spirit, and our bodies, so it makes sense that we are going to grow and expand in ways that require a new environment, new activities, and possibly, a new safe space. Take the soccer field for example. At that time, I needed something to distract me from my hardships, a place where I could have fun and feel supported, but I was also incredibly hard on myself to the point where, now, I am still learning to break down the severely competitive mindset that protected and challenged me. The thing is, I don’t need protection in that way anymore, and that mindset, in my current body, is doing more harm than good. That safe space is no longer safe. 

Thankfully, having had the time and space to focus on me, I was recently and finally diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), Premenstrual Exacerbation (PME), and insulin resistance which has kick-started the focus that needed to be happening internally to improve the relationship I have to my body. Slowly, little by little, I have been adjusting my old safe space to fit my current needs. In high school, I was a sprinter—running short lengths, but running them fast—but my body is different now, and through trial and error and constant listening, I learned that I’m more of a distance runner now that likes the ability to change my speed according to how much I can endure to upkeep my distance. This is an example of how your safe spaces need to grow with you, so when I relocated to my new room in a new apartment in a completely new area after leaving my relative’s home, the sudden loss of my safe space came as a shock to my system. But the shock came slow and silent—a gradual building of my body calling for help. 

Throughout the first month in my new space, I had started an 18-credit, entirely virtual semester and spent more time at my partner’s apartment than my own. My mind was so busy with a sudden change of environment and routine that I didn’t realize I hadn’t taken the time to create a new safe space for myself. A safe space can be a bench you like sitting on, your best friend’s passenger seat, a route you like walking, but after I had established a safe space at my relative’s house, I found that my room was the safe space for me. With any safe space, time needs to be taken regularly to maintain this space, whether that is your job or another’s, so when I moved to a new space and I didn’t do anything to make it safe for myself or do any work to maintain it, I completely crashed. I burnt out. I shut down.

In one of my courses, we were reading, Sonya Renee Taylor’s “The Body is Not an Apology: The Power of Radical Self-Love,” and I kept thinking of her words. To paraphrase, Taylor wrote that it was important for us to listen to our bodies as they are always trying to communicate with us (Taylor, 2018). So now that I felt anxious, depressed, and angry, I asked myself: What is my body trying to say? And what does my body need? As if my body was craving water, I realized how badly I needed to go home, be in my space, and regroup. I felt exhausted, but I kept this aim in my mind, so the next morning, I woke up and told myself I needed to find my safe space again. My safe space in that moment meant keeping my camera off for class and allowing myself to loosen the grip I had on my focus towards school and participation.

I spent the morning listening to my professor but also cleaning the room that had grown so messy with my clothes and things I had yet to unpack or organize. As my space became tidier, I could feel myself relaxing. I could release the tension in my shoulders, feel the electricity of nerves in my body grow more calm, and I felt, almost instantly, a lot better. I took the time to hang up magazine cut-outs, small posters, my LED lights, poems, and other decorations I had accumulated throughout the years that made me feel a sense of home, so that I finally felt like I belonged. I made my bed as the finishing touch, and right away, I felt an overwhelming sense of joy. This is exactly what my body needed: a place to feel safe.

As someone with trauma and mental illness, I feel more conscious of the necessity in needing a safe space now. Having a safe space means I have a place to regroup, reflect, reground, and reestablish myself. It’s a space that allows me to reconnect with my body and mind to maintain a regular check-in with what I need so I can keep going; and this is going to change all the time, no day is the same, hell, no minute is the same. Like time, we are always moving forward, and that means it’s important we’re taking the time to turn inward, to hear what our body is trying to communicate with us so we can continue to live the healthy lives we deserve. I feel fortunate to have the resources I need to feel this sense of safety at the place I am in my life, but remember, safety comes with many faces. It’s a music album. It’s a walk. It’s a therapist. It’s a mantra. It’s a meal. It’s a glass of water. It’s a meditative practice. It’s taking a few deep breaths. It’s a journal. It’s a soccer field. Establish what this space looks like for you, and remember to nurture it the same way you deserve to be nurtured. This space is meant for you; take it.

Taylor, S. R. (2018). The Body Is Not an Apology: The Power of Radical Self-Love (1st ed.). Berrett-Koehler Publishers.