Learning that I Am Safe as Me.

A reflection on therapy, unlearning survival, grieving the little girl I was, and discovering that God never left me on the floor.

Therapy has been asking me to do something I’ve avoided my entire life:

stay.

Stay with my feelings.

Stay with my body.

Stay withme—without hiding behind an identity that feels safer to speak through.

In one session, I caught myself referring to my experiences in the third person, like I always do. Creating distance. Protecting myself. And my therapist gently stopped me and said, “You don’t have to hide behind an identity to talk about your feelings.”

That moment hit harder than I expected. Because she was right.

I’ve spent years running from my emotions, intellectualizing them, labeling them, analyzing them—anything except actuallyfeelingthem. Therapy isn’t just about uncovering what hurts. It’s about naming the feelings underneath it, processing them, and slowly accepting a truth I’ve struggled to believe:a lot of what I went through was not my fault.

Some days I leave therapy feeling hopeful.

Most days, I leave feeling heavy.

My body feels weighed down.

My chest tight with anxiety.

An overwhelming sadness that lingers longer than I want it to.

Anger—always there in some form—quiet or loud, but present.

What’s shocked me most is how much therapy has cracked open things I didn’t even realize were still sealed shut. I’ve done therapy on and off for years. I’ve studied psychology. I’ve always considered myself self-aware. And yet—this has gone deeper. It’s exposed patterns I didn’t know were still quietly running my life.

One of the hardest beliefs therapy is challenging is this:

I am not safe as me.

Not safe to be vulnerable.

Not safe to feel deeply.

Not safe to make mistakes.

Not safe to let people down.

Not safe to express how others affect me.

I learned to accept. And accept. And accept—until I was overwhelmed. And when I finally reached that point, I’d react. I’d shut down. I’d dissociate. I’d distance myself. Then I’d blame myself for everything—especially the things that hurt me most. Even when I know it wasn’t my fault, my mind insists I could’ve done more. Changed something. Stopped it somehow. I hold my younger self to impossible expectations and punish her for surviving the only way she knew how.

But slowly—very slowly—things are shifting.

I’m learning to ask questions instead of getting defensive.

I’m learning to ask what someone needs from me instead of assuming I’ve failed.

I’m learning to make space for my feelings without immediately dismissing them.

I haven’t made huge, visible progress yet. But I can feel my brain changing. I can catch myself when I overthink or spiral. I can recognize when a thought isn’t true—even if I haven’t fully learned how to believe that yet.

There is grief in this process.

Deep grief.

I grieve the life I could’ve had.

I grieve the little girl with so many dreams and expectations.

I grieve the child who held everything alone because she didn’t feel safe enough to put it down.

And in the middle of all of this—God has been close.

One night recently, I completely fell apart. I was laid across my bed, half on the mattress and half on the floor, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe. One hand on my head, the other on my ear, rubbing back and forth just to ground myself—moving my hair out of my face over and over again. I was undone.

And in that moment, I heard Him.

I see you.

I’m with you.

You are not alone.

You are worthy of being loved.

I love you more than any love you could ever chase.

I’m right here. My love is here.

I have never felt so cared for. So seen. So held.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with this thought: maybe God knew I was strong enough as a child to survive what I endured—and He also knew my adult self would be strong enough to heal that child.

This road isn’t easy. It’s raw. It’s uncomfortable. It’s exposing parts of me I spent years protecting. But I’m learning that emotional safety matters too. That I deserve to speak honestly. That being myself doesn’t have to be dangerous.

I don’t have it all figured out.

But I’m staying.

And for now—that’s enough.