I once felt safe with you, I now feel safe with me

a reflection on resilience, forgiveness, and freedom

There was a time when I thought safety could only be found outside of myself. I placed my trust, my heart, my care into the hands of others — people I loved, people I thought had my back. I believed their arms, their words, their promises could shield me from the storm.

But life has a way of shaking us, of pulling back the curtains and revealing the truth we didn’t want to see. Those hands, those people — they couldn’t hold me. They couldn’t be the safety I longed for. And in the end, it wasn’t their fault. It was mine. I had placed my trust in something that was never meant to hold me.

I can still see the moments, so vividly, where I thought I was safe, only to watch that safety slip through my fingers.

I remember standing at my mother’s casket, feeling a hole so deep, and turning to my grandmother for comfort, but she pushed me away. The woman I thought would hold me close couldn’t receive my grief — too caught in her own sorrow, too broken to be there for me in that moment. My heart shattered with her rejection, and the storm inside of me only grew louder. I wanted so much to lean into her, to feel the familiarity of love and warmth, but instead, I felt her absence echoing in the space between us.

And then there was the friend — the one I trusted with my father’s things, the one who promised to care for them like they were her own. My father’s tools, his life’s work, everything he’d built — and she treated them as though they didn’t matter. I didn’t ask for much. I didn’t ask for perfection. But the way she discarded his things on the curb, like they were garbage, was a betrayal that dug into my soul. To see his legacy thrown away — to see his life reduced to an afterthought on the edge of her driveway — cut deeper than I could express. It wasn’t just his tools; it was everything he had given to me, everything I was still grieving, discarded as if it meant nothing.

And then there was my teammate — someone I had given a chance to, someone I had trusted with my vision. I shared my heart and my dreams with her, opening up in ways I had never done before. She assured me she was there to support me, but in the end, she took my vulnerability and used it as a stepping stone to build her own success. The words she had spoken to comfort me now felt like empty promises. My dreams, my vision, reshaped into her own narrative. I had given her space in my life, and she had taken it — leaving me with the hollow feeling of being seen only as a means to an end. The disappointment was sharp, like I had handed her my heart only to find it returned, broken and hollow.

These were moments where I thought I was safe — but they were also moments where I had to learn that no one else could be the safety I needed. I was putting my hope in the wrong places, expecting others to hold me up in ways they never could. And when they fell short, so did I. In those moments, I lost my footing, and the disillusionment came crashing down around me. The people I thought I could trust, the people I thought I could rely on, proved that they couldn’t be the ones to hold me when it mattered most. And that? That hurt in ways I couldn’t fully grasp at the time.

But here's the thing: I’m not angry anymore. I don’t carry the weight of these betrayals in the way I once did. I don’t look at these moments with hatred or resentment, because they were my lessons. I needed them. They were the tools that helped me rebuild myself.

Through all of it — the loss, the hurt, the confusion — I’ve come to realize that no one else can be my safety. No one else can be my home. I’ve learned that my heart, my body, my spirit are the only ones that can truly hold me. And that truth? It’s liberating. It’s mine, and no one can take it away.

There was a time when I thought safety could only be found in others. But now, I stand grounded in the truth that it is within me. These past betrayals — my grandmother’s rejection, my friend’s disregard for my father’s legacy, my teammate’s theft of my dreams — have all guided me back to myself. They cracked me open, but in that space, I found my own strength.

I used to feel lost in the pain of these experiences, but now I can see them for what they were: the breaking of false idols. I learned that I needed to build my own foundation, one that wasn’t reliant on the promises or actions of others. And so I have.

Now, I know that the generosity I crave, the care I seek, can’t come from someone else’s hands. It has to come from me. I can trust my body’s wisdom. I can trust my heart’s rhythms. I can trust my mind’s knowing.

Where once I felt unsafe with myself, I now stand confident in my worth and my capacity to heal. The truth I once looked for outside of me has found its home within me.

I am safe within me. And with that safety, I no longer need to fear what others can or cannot provide. I can move through this world, imperfect and whole, knowing that I hold my own healing, my own care, and my own worth.

And the best part? From this place of knowing, I can show up with authenticity, create the connections I deserve, and give love without expectation. I can trust others again, but I no longer need them to be the ones to heal me. I’ve learned how to give that to myself.

I am thankful for the lessons wrapped in heartache. I am thankful for the wounds that forced me to build the safety I had always sought. I am thankful for the woman I have become in the process — strong, whole, and deeply, profoundly safe in her own skin.

Reflect with me for a moment…

Have you ever been in a relationship where you once felt safe, but no longer do? What happened in that space of transition?

What resources did you lean into in those moments of hurt, confusion, or disillusionment? Did you find the strength to move through the pain, or did you feel lost? How did you rebuild, and what did you learn about yourself in the process?

Do you feel anger, grudges, or perhaps the weight of grief? How do you carry those emotions, and how do they shape your journey? And what about gratitude? Have you found a place for that, too — the kind of gratitude that arises only after the storm has passed and you can see how the lessons have shaped you into someone stronger, more whole, more aligned?

For me, the gratitude comes in knowing those lessons have been learned — many, many, many times over — and the clarity of knowing I can trust myself, take care of myself, love myself. The irony of it all? The more secure I am within who I am, the right people find their way into my heart and story — the ones who are also aligned in that vibration of victory over victim, the ones who are accountable, not apathetic.

But here’s the deeper truth: It’s also about how we show up now, knowing what we've learned. It’s about being with that wound — the one we carry from others’ hurts — and not letting it become the thing that harms someone else.

We are the ones breaking the cycle. Breaking the patterns of pain, of greed, of hurt. We are the ones who are unlearning how we push ourselves away, how we let the wounds of others dictate our own hearts. It took all of that — the heartbreak, the deception, the grief — for me to finally take a clearer and more compassionate look at myself. To see how I can be wounded, hurt, deceived, and still be willing to stand in the truth of my healing.

And even more — to do all within my might and means to not perpetuate that hurt. To not make others feel worse for the mistakes they made, and to not let myself feel worse either. I now hold a boundary with more love and clarity than I ever have before, and there is this quiet, fierce belief within me: This will never happen again.

Not because I am hardened or bitter, but because I have learned to love myself enough to never settle for anything less than the love, respect, and compassion I deserve. I will protect that part of me with all that I am, and in doing so, I break the cycles of harm that have been passed down through generations and culture. I release the need to replay that narrative, and in its place, I choose healing. I choose freedom. I choose love. I choose me. And I hope with all my heart you choose you and all your healing, love, and freedom, too.

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