He asked me "Do you feel safe?" | Emotional Safety

The Safety I Had to Learn to Build

I didn’t know how important inner safety was

until I fell in love with a man who told me,

again and again,

that he wanted me to feel safe, warm, and loved.

He would ask me,

“Do you feel safe?”

“Do you feel warm?”

“Do you feel loved?”

At first, I answered with an enthusiastic yes.

It felt true. I wanted it to be true.

But over time, my yeses turned into silent, secret nos.

And still—I stayed.

Even when I knew I wasn’t safe with him,

his words became like a drug I kept injecting, trying to numb the truth.

Trying to hold on to the feeling I wanted to believe in.

But when things went really bad with my dad,

and he disappeared

into silence, into delayed responses,

into punishment and control dressed up as distance.

Something in me woke up.

I realized:

It was never his job to keep me safe.

It was mine.

And so I did.

I started learning how to create safety for myself.

Not all at once. Not perfectly.

But in the quiet ways that add up over time.

It started with self-trust.

Not just listening to myself—

but standing by me.

It’s the steady knowing that I will do my best to keep myself safe.

That I’ll show up for me, day after day.

That I did the best I could with what I had—

and that I am committed to who I’m creating.

It was reinforced by self-protection.

The willingness to walk away from what hurts.

To hold boundaries, set non-negotiables, and say, “No more.”

To choose self-respect over approval.

To stop letting people who harm me stay close enough to keep doing it.

Because safety isn’t only about softness.

It’s also about structure.

About the guardrails that say,

“I will not abandon myself again—not for love, not for peace, not for anyone.”

Then it was fortified by self-compassion.

The grace to be human.

Words of affirmation spoken to myself.

Treating myself tenderly—

as if I am divinely worthy of kindness, respect, and dignity.

Not fixing. Not judging.

Just staying soft, even when things are hard.

And then, at some point, self-forgiveness showed up.

Reluctantly.

Not without tears.

It sounded a little like,

You don’t have to keep punishing yourself. You’ve carried enough.

And maybe the hardest part of all—radical self-acceptance.

Not the kind that shrugs and says, “That’s just how I am.”

But the kind that looks at all of it—

the parts I love, the parts I’m proud of,

the ones I hide, the ones that still make me wince—

and says,You’re here. I see you. And I’m not turning away.

It doesn’t mean I stop growing.

It means I stop withholding care until I’ve earned it.

I can work on what needs tending and still be kind to myself in the process.

I can be a masterpiece and a work in progress, all at once.

It’s quiet work.

Tender work.

But it’s the most honest kind I know.

Because the truth is, safety isn’t something I wait for anymore.

It’s something I created inside of me..

Author’s Note

The words in this piece come from lived experience, but they’re also supported by a deep well of research and reflection. The idea that we can create internal safety through self-trust, boundaries, compassion, and acceptance is echoed across psychology, philosophy, and spiritual traditions.

This piece is shaped by the work of Dr. Kristin Neff on self-compassion, Brené Brown on boundaries and worthiness, and Carl Rogers’ insight that true change begins with self-acceptance. It carries the influence of trauma experts like Dr. Judith Herman and Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, who remind us that safety, especially after harm, is the foundation of healing.

And it’s inspired by the quiet strength of those who’ve learned, through fire and tenderness, how to come home to themselves.

If something here resonates, know you’re not alone. There is research behind your intuition. And there is power in practicing this kind of safety, day by day, with gentleness and resolve.

With love,

Katherine